


The Hedgehog of the Baskertons

by Sturzkampf



Category: Widdershins (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-05-13 17:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sturzkampf/pseuds/Sturzkampf
Summary: From the memoirs of Professor Sir Benjamin Thackerey FRSW DMg KCMGA family curse from the distant past stalks a remote Gothic manor house. Can Benjamin Thackerey, Heinrich Wolfe and Jack O'Malley solve the mystery?





	1. A Most Annoying Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Thackerey’s Malform Removals are asked to investigate a most unusual case_

I could tell immediately that this was going to be a difficult case. Normally anyone coming to the offices of Thackerey’s Malform Removals is in a hurry. They may be embarrassed; they may be angry; they may be scared; they may be defensive, but always they want immediate action. When the client comes in, accepts refreshments and then spends ten minutes asking general questions about the services we provide, how malforms are created, and the difference between personified and imbued summons, then it is obvious that there isn’t a malform busy wrecking his property at this very moment.

The annoying client sitting in my best armchair, cautiously sipping Heinrich Wolfe’s idea of a nice cup of tea, was called Dr Augustus. Although he spoke like an educated man, there were still traces of a west country accent that had never quite been beaten out of him. He was a general practitioner for several parishes near Coleford in Gloucestershire. There was nothing to do but answer his questions and wait for him to get to the point.

Wolfe sat forward, listening intently as though he understood every word of my technical explanations. O’Malley slouched in his chair, almost horizontal, doing his best to dispel any notion that we were a professional organisation, filling the air with smoke from his disgusting roll-ups.  I was starting to wonder if the doctor was another of those annoying hashish fiends who waste a surprisingly large amount of my time asking me to remove the malform living inside their head that keeps telling them to take all their clothes off in public or do terrible things to small children. Then again, the symptoms were wrong. There was none of the rambling repetition, intense staring and uncoordinated movements of someone who has destroyed their brain with recreational narcotics. It was almost as though the good doctor was too embarrassed to get to the point.

“Tell me Mr Thackerey,” he said, “how long might a summons or a b*gger – I mean a malform be expected to persist? Surely they cannot continue for ever.”

“You will appreciate that it is a difficult thing to measure, but the best estimate by the academics who have studied the question is about two months,” I explained.

“Nah, more like ten years,” sneered O’Malley.

“Oh, and you know more than the leading wizards in the field because…?” I enquired sarcastically.

“Eh, ’cause they tol’ me, din’ they.”

“What, the wizards?” asked Dr Augustus, puzzled.

“Nah, the b*ggerups.” Dr Augustus gave O’Malley a very strange look, combining incredulity, amazement and a little fear. O’Malley smirked at me with malicious intent. He never misses a chance to embarrass me in public.

“Ah, well then, whatever the truth of the matter, it would not be feasible for a malform, or even a personified summons, to persist for one hundred and fifty years?”

“No, otherwise the world would be filled with them. They would be everywhere.”

“An’ ’ow d’ye know they ain’t?”

“Obviously, because…”

“Now friend Mal, let us talk with the client, yes?” Wolfe intervened. I realised O’Malley was baiting me again. I turned back to Dr Augustus.

“From that, I presume your problem relates to some kind of summoning that has persisted for a very long time?”

“Yes, perhaps I should tell you my story.” An excellent idea, I thought to myself.

“I think I mentioned that I am the GP for several parishes around Coleford.”

“Ah yes, in Gloucestershire.”

“Not just Gloucestershire. In the Forest of Dean. It is a remote place, little changed over the centuries. The foresters – the locals – have a somewhat insular view of the world. But there is more than that. The Forest is a unique place, filled with its own magic. You can imagine that the ancient nature spirits still walk through the secluded hidden places, and perhaps there is more there than our modern rational age will admit.”

“Please. I have no time for medievalism. Modern scholarship has shown all these rural superstitions to have perfectly rational explanations; for instance, the results of malforms summoned by incompetent hedge wizards, or the minor imbuing of everyday objects exposed to strong emotion over an extended period of time.”

“It is easy to say that sitting here in Widdershins, surrounded by all the comforts of modern civilisation, but when you are riding in the dark through the wild places of the Forest, on your way to a patient in one of the remote farms, then perhaps you will not be so assertive. I have seen things moving out of the corner of my eye, heard things calling from the trees and across the fields, that cannot be so easily dismissed.”

“I take it that you are not here to talk of vague imaginings in a wild place on a stormy night. You have a more specific problem, yes?”

“Indeed. Perhaps I had best begin at the very beginning.”

“A very good place to start,” added Wolfe, encouragingly.

“The story I’m about to tell you is well known in the Forest. There are many versions of the legend, and you will hear them in the most sensational form in the taverns and those guide books of local tales they print for tourists, but the most accurate version is probably that in an old manuscript kept at Coleford Museum that is almost contemporaneous with the events it describes. It all starts in the wild and turbulent times of King James the Defiler, that wicked King who seemed hell-bent on the destruction of the stability and prosperity of the Kingdom. At the time, the Verderer, that’s the official with responsibility for the forest and the foresters, was Sir Gerald Baskerton, a malevolent and perverted man. He followed the King’s beliefs with unquestioning loyalty and enforced his decrees with malicious enthusiasm. He kept the foresters under his thumb using vicious bands of hired mercenaries, who delighted in oppressing the people at every opportunity.”

“As in so many places around Britain, the people of the Forest rose up in revolt to defend their country and their rights, and, inevitably, the revolt was put down in the most savage way imaginable. Many were killed, many imprisoned, many homes were burned as Sir Gerald ground the people it was his duty to protect into the dirt.”

 “When all seemed lost, Winifred of Shortstanding, a wizard and one of the leaders of the rising, gathered her remaining supporters at The Hog’s Mouth, a place of ancient power where the foresters have long met to discuss their grievances and settle their disputes. The place is still there today. The brave rebels were surrounded by Sir Gerald and his evil henchmen. In a last act of desperation Winifred called on the spirit of the land to protect the people. She summoned a spirit that local folklore says has long guarded the Forest, a gigantic and terrifying monster. It tore Sir Gerald Baskerton from his horse and treated him most savagely, tearing his welchet asunder according to the old text. The guardian spirit then turned on his evil minions and slaughtered them in double-quick time too. The chronicler takes several pages recording their various horrific demises. Either he held a personal grudge against these men, or he enjoyed writing about that sort of thing.”

“A fascinating story,” said Wolfe, with such sincerity that I almost believed him.

“Are you saying they summoned some kind of Earth Spirit?” I asked.

“It has always been recorded as a summons of the Spirit of Justice. A perfectly legitimate summoning using the traditional place for trial and judgement as the conduit, and the righting of wrongs as the offering.”

“Justice is a concept, not an emotion. Every wizard knows it is not something that can be summoned. Righteous anger, or indignation or even wrath, yes. And such violence! Even a manifestation of a deadly sin would be unlikely to cause such destruction, unless it had been personally offended in some way, and who would be so foolish as to make a personal enemy of a deadly sin? For centuries wizards have tried to summon all manner of spirits to do violence on their behalf, but no-one has ever succeeded to the extent that you describe and believe me it is not through want of trying. The summoning of such a creature to wage open warfare against fellow humans, no matter how despicable, is extremely difficult due to the constraints of magic and is most certainly prohibited by the Code of Ethics.”

“Perhaps the tale has grown in the telling over the years,” suggested Wolfe. “Such things are quite common I believe. What form did this summons take?”

“According to the accounts, it was a _chaggrin_.”

“Pardon me, but I do not know that word.”

“A _chaggrin_. It’s a kind of guardian spirit from the folklore of the Forest, long associated with the Hog’s Mouth. It is said to resemble… that is… ah… it is said to resemble a gigantic hedgehog.”

“A hedgehog?!” I exclaimed. “The summons was a hedgehog? A _giant_ hedgehog?!” O’Malley didn’t bother to even try to suppress a disrespectful snigger.

“That’s what the legend says,” continued Dr Augustus defensively.

The entire tale filled me unease. This talk of the spirit of the land sounded more like a shadow from a past far darker than the days of Bad King James. It reminded me of the evil ancient time of the old earth power, when elemental forces unchained by human morality or sentient thought were called forth and wreaked havoc across the Kingdom.

“Is there more to your story?” asked Wolfe.

“Only the happy ending. With the coming of  King William the Liberator the next year King James fled to the continent like the coward he was, and Sir Gerald’s son George, who had long been imprisoned for his opposition to his father’s evil ways, was released from gaol and richly rewarded for his loyalty. His descendants have remained one of the most influential – and the wealthiest – of the families in the Forest ever since and are still the hereditary Verderer of Coleford, living at their ancestral seat of Baskerton Hall. But the foresters still remember the story and say that should the Verderer ever betray them again, the spirit remains ready to emerge from the forest to give them Justice.”

 “But why are you here now? Do you want us to find and desummon this embodiment from one hundred and fifty years ago?”

“Oh no, I want you to find and desummon the monster that killed Sir Henry Baskerton, Sir Gerald’s direct descendant, in the garden of Baskerton Hall not three weeks ago!”

“But surely, this summoned spirit cannot still be walking the Forest after so long?”

“That is precisely what I have been asking you! Perhaps I should explain. You see, there is a stone at the Hog’s Mouth. A… a… standing stone.” Dr Augustus looked disconcerted, as well he might. “According to local legend, it was the conduit from which the spirit of Justice was summoned all those years ago, and the spirit remains there still, watching and waiting.”

“But surely such a thing would have been thrown down and buried by the Magical Ethics Board.”

“Oh, it was. But the foresters weren’t too happy about it. They always thought of the stone as watching over them – looking after their interests, you know. But, in truth, they probably would have forgotten all about it. To dig it up would have required time and effort and money. But then, just before the war, an expatriate came back from the colonies – he’d made his money prospecting in Canada I believe, and he was all for reviving the old traditions. He paid men to dig up the pieces of the broken stone, had it stuck back together and then re-erected. It still stands to this day.”

“And no-one objected?!”

“As I said, he was a rich man. A few words and ‘donations’ in the right place… you know how it is. The stone is now declared an Ancient Monument and part of British Heritage. It has a metal railing around it and an information plaque and everything. It’s in an out of the way place, so I suppose no-one in magical authority is even aware of it.”

“But a stone monolith! Raised in Britain! In this enlightened age!”

“It’s been officially declared safe. I’ve looked at the certification in Coleford Town Hall. There’s no indication of any earth power or ley lines associated with it. No elemental force can be detected. It is not even imbued. It’s just a stone – a symbol of the foresters’ rights and freedoms and a monument to their stand against evil all those years ago.”

“This is not at all the sort of thing I approve of! Why it could…”

“Ah, friend Ben,” interrupted Wolfe. “Perhaps we should do the job and let the authorities deal with any possible – infringement – of regulations, yes?” He was right as usual.

“Very well,” I said. “Some unwise colonial has re-erected this stone. Why should this have anything to do with Sir Henry’s Death?”

“Because of the legend that the _chaggrin_ residing there protects the interests of the people against the authorities who would oppress them. In the last year there has been some disagreement between Sir Henry and his foresters. You see, industry is coming to the Forest. Mining has long been conducted on a small scale, but now there are plans to sink mines on an industrial scale to exploit the rich deposits of coal, to power the new steam engines and fuel progress. As part of the plan, a new high-speed tramway is to be built across Sir Henry’s land, to connect the new mines to the railway terminal and port at Gloucester.”

“Let me guess. The foresters objected to the despoiling of the land by this new appalling industrialisation.”

“Oh no, they were all in favour of something that would bring jobs and wealth. It was Sir Henry who objected to the plans. He said the new tramway would spoil his view.”

“I still don’t see how this links back to the legend.”

“Sir Henry took the _chaggrin_ very seriously. He was increasingly worried that by acting in his own selfish interest against the best interest of the foresters who he was supposed to be responsible for, he would invoke the wrath of their guardian. He was an older man with a weak heart and he became obsessed with the legend, despite anything I could say to dispel his delusions.”

“’ow’d ‘e die?” asked O’Malley. “Were ‘is welchet torn asunder? By a giant ‘edge’og?” He sounded far too enthusiastic at the thought.

“No. One night he went out for his usual constitutional walk in the garden after dinner and… didn’t come back. Mr Conlon, that’s the butler at Hall, discovered the door open at about eleven and finding his master was not in the house took a lantern and went in search of him. Sir Henry was lying on the lawn, a look of terror on his face. I was at the scene within fifteen minutes. There was nothing I could do. Sir Henry had been dead for at least an hour, possibly more.”

“What killed him?”

“Heart failure. There wasn’t a mark on his body and nothing to indicate foul play. I performed the autopsy and it showed the full extent of his heart disease – far more than I had realised. That’s what I told the coroner at the inquest. She brought in the only possible verdict; natural causes.”

“But what makes you think it was anything to do with your summoned spirit, your… your _chaggrin_?” asked Wolfe.

“You see, I didn’t quite tell the entire story at the inquest. I didn’t want to cause a panic among the foresters.”

“And what was it you withheld from the coroner.” I asked.

“There were footprints beside the body.”

“A man’s or a woman’s?”

Dr Augustus looked strangely at us for an instant and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered.

“Mr Thackerey, they were the footprints of a gigantic hedgehog!”


	2. The Land Between Two Rivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Mr Wolfe and Mr O’Malley learn a new song and Mr Thackerey damages a chair._

I shivered with horror. There was a sharp intake of breath from Wolfe. O’Malley gave a derisive snort and threw the dogend of his disgusting roll-up into the middle of the carpet.

“Aye well, tha’ explains it.”

“What you have seen something like this before? Your gift gives you some insight, yes?” asked Wolfe.

“Nah,” sneered O’Malley, “’s jus’ y’man ‘ere’s a nutter.”

Dr Augustus flushed with anger.

“That is exactly what they said at the Royal Society! And at the University! And at the Police Station! I did not come here to be insulted!” He rose to leave.

“No, no,” laughed Wolfe. “Please, do not take offence. You must not mind friend Mal’s little ways. He is a little _exzenter_ , yes?” I assume that is the German word for ‘obnoxious’. “Here at Thackerey and Company we are always ready to investigate any malforms or rogue summoning. For very reasonable daily rates, is that not right?” Dr Augustus sat back in his seat, looking hurt.

“Did anyone else see these footprints?” I asked, in an attempt to ease the situation.

“No, they were in a flower bed. The body was lying on the lawn. I certainly did not draw anyone’s attention to them.”

“But why the need to solve this problem now?”

“Apart from the fact that a ravening monster may have been awoken and even now be stalking the Forest? Because it is vital for the local economy that Sir Henry’s heir takes up his inheritance; the Hall, the estate and the position of Verderer. If it becomes known that there are certain – complications – entailed to the inheritance, he may feel less inclined to come to the Forest, and merely sell the estate. Who knows who might buy it? Probably some outsider with no empathy for the Forest or the foresters. It might be one of these new ghastly industrialists or… or… or an American! As one of Sir Henry’s executors, I have the responsibility to find a solution and authority to use the estate to resolve the problem. We will pay your daily rate, plus expenses.”

“Is it a large inheritance?”

“The estate is valued at some £200,000, generating an income of approximately £10,000 per annum.”

“A prodigious amount. And who is the lucky heir?”

“Sir Henry had no children, but there is one surviving relative, a nephew, Reginald Baskerton, last heard of in London. Ms Allingham, Sir Henry’s solicitor and the other executor of his will, has been unable to locate him.”

“Mebbe ‘e’s been done away wi’ by a big ‘edge’og,” sneered O’Malley. 

Wolfe gave me a significant look. We were both thinking of the late Sir Henry’s large estate, ready to pay a daily rate, plus expenses. It was flattering that such a lucrative case should be offered to us, if you ignored the fact that Dr Augustus had already been rebuffed by everyone else and had come to us as a last resort.

“We will be delighted to take the case!” said Wolfe.

“Could you travel back down with me tomorrow?” asked Doctor Augustus. “The sooner the problem can be resolved, the better.”

“Although many will be uneasy that Widdershins should be without the protection of our vital services, I think the town will not collapse into complete chaos just yet in our absence,” I said.

“Where is this Forest?” asked Wolfe. “Are we perhaps going North?”

“No South,” explained Doctor Augustus. “The Forest of Dean is an area bounded by the River Severn and the River Wye, West of Gloucester, South of Herefordshire and East of Chepstow. It is rather isolated, as much by culture as by geography.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“We can take the train to the end of the line at Gloucester. From there we can ride on the post coach to Ruardean, in the heart of the Forest, and then a carriage from the Hall will collect us. You can stay there for the duration of your investigation.”

“That’s a long and tiring trip,” I said.

“Not so bad. Only three days. These new railways have revolutionised travel. Before that, it would have taken us at least a week.”

“It will be a novel experience for us to ride on the train,” said Wolfe.

“We’ done the trains lots o’ times,” said O’Malley.

“Ah, but Mal, this will be a new experience for us, will it not? This time we will be riding in a carriage! With a ticket!”

I let Wolfe negotiate our rates for the job, but my heart sank. Why does it always have to be hedgehogs?

\-------------------*

Once Dr Augustus had gone, Thackerey and Company was thrown into a flurry of activity, as we prepared to depart for Baskerton Hall the next day. At least, Wolfe and I were thrown into a flurry of activity. O’Malley remained slouched horizontally in his chair industriously smoking disgusting roll-ups.

The next morning Dr Augustus met us at the railway station and arranged an advance on our fees to pay for our fares. I will admit to having spent a sleepless night. I’d heard the stories of how at the enormous speeds attained by the latest models of locomotive the capillaries in the brain would be sure to rupture, leading to permanent impairment of higher cognitive functions and even death due to a brain haemorrhage. Fortunately, my fears were groundless and none of us suffered any ill effects on the journey down to Gloucester, despite the train reaching the amazing speed of fifty-five miles per hour on the straight flat stretch south of Worcester. Then again, if O’Malley’s cognitive functions had been permanently impaired how would we tell?

Even though the railway was remarkably quiet and comfortable compared to the several days jolting over uneven roads it would have taken us in a post coach, I was still exhausted from the journey when we finally arrived at the railway terminus in Gloucester that evening. Dr Augustus, or rather, the estate of the late Sir Henry Baskerton, paid for reasonable rooms for each of us in The Station Hotel, which were not as awful as I had I feared. The food was acceptable enough too, so long as one did not ponder on the inevitable horrendous state of hotel kitchens. Once we had eaten, Wolfe and O’Malley decided to take the opportunity to explore the town and went out ‘for a quick drink’. I sat with Dr Augustus in the hotel lounge explaining details of the various methods by which a stone monolith might be rendered safe, but he was clearly fatigued by the long journey, so after only half-an-hour made an excuse and retired to his room. I followed soon after.

My bed was more comfortable than I had expected, but no sooner had I fallen asleep when I was disturbed by loud drunken singing from the corridor outside my room.

 “ _North, South, East and West_  
_Think of whichever you love the best_  
_Forest and vale and high blue hill_  
_You may have whichever you will_  
_And quaff one cup to the love o’ your soul_  
_Before we drink to the lovely whole!”_

I tut-tut’ed in disgust. Dr Augustus had assured me that this was a respectable hotel. Then I realised that of the two drunken singers, the one singing in tune had a distinct German accent, while the one out of tune was broad Irish. Sometimes I despair that Thackerey and Company will ever be a trusted brand or a company with a reputation for professionalism. I buried my head under my pillow, as much from embarrassment, as to block out the racket, and tried to get back to sleep.

Next morning, both Wolfe and O’Malley were late coming down for breakfast. From their bickering it was clear that O’Malley had been forcibly dragged out of bed by Wolfe, because we had a coach to catch and the breakfast was free. Both looked distinctly unwell. Dr Augustus said nothing, but I felt sure he must have been disturbed by the commotion the night before and was extremely relieved that he was not paying for our professional services with his own money. I would have remonstrated with Wolfe and O’Malley there and then, had I not wanted to berate them in public. Anyway, experience has shown that when I try and impress on them the importance of maintaining a professional attitude while they are suffering from the self-inflicted consequences of over-indulgence, they tend to be extremely uncooperative.

At least Wolfe’s iron constitution quickly recovered after a hearty breakfast, but O’Malley could only manage the lukewarm brown liquid the hotel staff pretended was coffee and looked a pale, quiet and withdrawn version of his usual self. Frankly, I found it a great improvement.

“Did you have a good evening in Gloucester?” asked Dr Augustus.

“Indeed, did we not Mal?” said Wolfe.

“Blergl,” muttered O’Malley.

“Yes, we met a bunch of jolly Gloucester fellows, who told us how their county is, in fact, paradise, and taught us many cheery local songs.”

“I know,” I said, pointedly. Both Wolfe and Mal missed the tone in my voice.

“Our new friends told us all about Ruardean, where we will stay tonight. Apparently, they have some most amusing folk tales. We must ask the locals who killed the bears.” Dr Augustus choked on his tea.

“Good grief no! Under no circumstances must you mention any bears in Ruardean! I’m afraid your so-called friends were playing a most cruel joke on you.”

“How so?”

“A few years ago, there were a band of itinerants touring the villages with a pair of dancing bears. You know the type. The men make the bears prance around for the crowd and then go around collecting pennies in a hat. It seems that after the performance the ‘savage’ beasts had so frightened the locals that a rumour went around the town that the bears had killed a child. As a result, a gang of townsfolk attacked the itinerants with sticks and stones, beat the bears to death and badly injured their owners. There was quite a fuss about it at the time and several of the locals were fined heavily. There was a collection to compensate the itinerants. Anyway, as an upshot, the whole incident was portrayed as a bunch of ignorant yokels attacking things they did not understand. Ever since, their neighbours, especially the people from Gloucester, who look down on the foresters, have used the story to taunt the people of Ruardean. Going there and asking in a loud voice, ‘Who killed the bears?’ is a sure way to start a fight.”

“Oh, I see. Be sure I will not mention any bears this evening.”

“Indeed not,” I said. “We must be sure to make a good impression. I want no repeat of last night’s drunken escapades.”

“But surely it would only be polite to have a drink with our hosts”

“Hm. Very well then. But only one drink, you understand? I’m serious about this. One drink with our evening meal and then an early night? Understand?”

“But of course!”

When the time came to leave for Ruardean, Dr Augustus, Wolfe and I joined the other passengers in the post coach. Of O’Malley there was no sign. The coachman looked significantly at his watch, the horses pawed impatiently at the ground and everyone scowled at me as though it were my fault, personally. Finally, O’Malley dragged himself out of the inn and into the coach, under the glares of the other passengers (except Wolfe of course). O’Malley responded with a little secret smirk of pleasure that gave me an unpleasant insight into his personality. If I delay anyone, then I feel guilty and mortified for the rest of the day. O’Malley on the contrary feels pleasure in that he has caused some irritation and frustration to others. In a small way, he has upset someone, wiped the smile from their face, just because he can. I’m sure that there is a word for that.

The distance from Gloucester to Ruardean is only a little under twenty miles, but it would take us as long to cover the distance as it had to travel the two hundred miles from Widdershins the day before. It was not only the difference between steam and horse power. We were travelling into a rural part of the country, where even the main roads were often little more than cart tracks, not the high roads that connected the urban hubs such as Widdershins, Manchester and London. Worse, we were entering an area of rolling hills. The horses often struggled to pull the heavy cart up the steeper inclines, and they needed to be frequently changed at the many stops at the coaching inns. And of course, each stop meant a further delay while the mail was sorted, passengers went to stretch their legs or wet their whistle, and there were all the usual unnecessary and annoying delays caused by inefficient organisation.

We were sharing the carriage with a pair of respectable middle-aged ladies. I filled the long and tedious journey by explaining to Dr Augustus some of the more fascinating details of malform desummoning, while Wolfe embarrassed everyone by flirting outrageously with the ladies, who covered their annoyance and embarrassment by constant giggling.

After we left the main Gloucester to Ross-on-Wye Road and headed West the road had many twists and turns and sudden short ascents and declines. The coach began to rock and sway as the coachman navigated the bends. O’Malley began to look increasingly unwell. Suddenly he leaped up, banged on the roof and shouted:

‘Stop the coach!’ Even before the coachman had come to a stop, O’Malley threw open the door, rushed into the bushes at the side of the road and was violently ill.

“I am afraid it must have been the pie,” Wolfe explained apologetically and climbed out to make sure he was all right. The respectable ladies sat in the carriage and pretended not to notice. When were finally on the road again, we made O’Malley ride on the roof of the carriage with the baggage, because we thought the fresh air would do him good and because he stank of vomit.

\-------------------*

Finally, the post coach arrived in Ruardean. Although it is technically a town because it has its own market, it was clear we were far from the modern comforts of Yorkshire. For one thing, the town was very small, no more than a large village for the more prosperous and developed parts of Britain. Houses were for the most part ancient timber-framed wattle and daub construction, covered in peeling whitewash, with thatched rooves. At least they had not been ruined by this ghastly new fashion of painting the wooden beams black with creosote, which to my mind only emphasises their haphazard and probably unsafe construction. Only in the centre of town, around the main square, was there anything resembling a modern building. The roads were unpaved, no more than cart tracks winding between the buildings than proper streets. At least the weather had been dry, so we were only covered in dust. When it rains, the roads must turn into a quagmire. And of course, there was the all-pervasive quaint rural smell of a town in possession of too many farm animals and inadequate sanitation, a fact that those who wax lyrical about the joys of country living always seem to omit.

I was relieved to see that our inn, the Malt Shovel, was at least constructed of brick and possessed a good slate roof, even if it could do with a good coat of paint. When I remarked on the fact, Wolfe reminded me that it was in no worse condition than our own offices in Widdershins. He had a point. Inside, as is common for coaching inns, the ground floor was mostly a single open space, with tables and chairs, and a bar at the far end. There were a plenty of locals, drinking and smoking, and the chatter fell silent when we walked in. Fortunately, having examined us and decided we were not threatening, the locals turned back to their drink and ignored us; a friendlier reception than I might have expected in a rural inn. I suppose that as this was the terminus of the post coach, the locals were inured to meeting people who were born more than five miles from their village and whom they had not known for more than ten years.

We found an empty table and I decided, out of courtesy, that I should treat everyone to a round, rather than claiming everything on expenses. Dr Augustus, Wolfe and O’Malley all asked for a pint of the highly dubious local ale from the barrels behind the bar serving local ale.

“Do you have any wine?” I asked the large friendly landlady serving behind bar, who had clearly not missed many pies. Wolfe always assures me that this is a good sign.

“But ov cawse zir,” she replied. “We got both sorts ‘ere. Red wine and er…” she frowned for a moment in unaccustomed concentration, then brightened in self-congratulation when she remembered. “…and white wine too!”

“Three pints of ale and a glass of red wine please. And perhaps we could order some food?” We could. It turned out to be surprisingly good, both in quality and quantity. The wine, unsurprisingly, not so good, but I have had worse; I have been an undergraduate. Wolfe and O’Malley were completely recovered from their excesses of the previous evening and ate and drank with relish.

“Now remember what I said about drinking,” I reminded them. “That is all the alcohol we will have tonight. I want you both alert and presentable when we arrive at Baskerton Hall tomorrow.”

Doctor Augustus drained his glass. “Thank you for the pint, Mr Thackerey, but I have been away from home – and my practice - for far too long. If you’ll excuse me…” He rose to leave. I went with him out into the courtyard, where the Malt Shovel’s dog cart was being prepared to drive him home.

“I’ll drop in at the Hall on my way home,” he told me. “Let you know you’re here, so they can get the carriage ready. Then I can spend the night at home and come back here with the carriage tomorrow morning and pick you up. We should be here sometime about eleven o’clock. Do you think you can amuse yourself in Ruardean until then?”

“That will not be a problem,” I assured him. As that is usually about the time O’Malley rolls out of bed, I reflected that if the carriage were to be half-an-hour late, perhaps we might actually be ready to leave when it arrived. We said goodbye, and I went back into the Malt Shovel, ready for an early night and the chance to read an improving book. When I came back to our table, there were two full pints of beer in front of Wolfe and O’Malley. I was most annoyed.

“I specifically forbade you to have any more alcohol,” I remonstrated. “We are supposed to be professionals! Tomorrow we begin an important case and we cannot afford repetition of last night’s debacle in Gloucester. Now, which of you disobeyed by strict instructions?” They avoided my gaze but sneaked a peek at each other and sniggered, like naughty schoolboys. Such contempt was the final straw. I stood up and thumped the table.

“ALL RIGHT!” I exclaimed, extremely cross, “WHO FILLED THE BEERS?!” Suddenly the room went very, very quiet. I looked round and saw that all the locals were looking at me in an extremely unfriendly fashion. Several of them were getting to their feet and rolling up their sleeves.

“Ah, no, haha,” I explained, “how unfortunate. You see what I actually said was….” Then someone hit me with a chair. My memories of the rest of the evening are somewhat hazy.

I will skip over the painful memories of my awakening in a police cell the next morning, with a bruised forehead and a splitting headache, and our appearance before the local magistrate on a charge of breach of the peace. To add insult to injury, while Wolfe and O’Malley pleaded guilty and were only fined half a crown, because I pleaded not guilty and tried to explain that it had all been an unfortunate misunderstanding, I was fined five shillings, plus a further two and ninepence as compensation for damage to the chair. All my life I have strived to be an upright, law-abiding and honest citizen. When I am rewarded by injustice such as this, I have to wonder why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you should visit Ruardean_  
>  [ _don’t mention any bears_ ](https://youtu.be/Rn7LvunqAy4)
> 
>  
> 
> _This chapter contains more anachronisms than you can shake a stick at. The ballad sung by Wolfe and Mal was written by F.W. Harvey in the early twentieth century and not set to music by Johnny Coppin until the 1980’s. The unfortunate incident with the bears did not take place until 1874. But... AU and all that!_


	3. Baskerton Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Herr Wolfe goes for a swim, Mr O’Malley performs a good deed and Mr Thackerey gets his shoes dirty._

By the time we had paid our fines and been released from custody, we were already late for the carriage to Baskerton Hall. We must have looked a sorry sight. I had a large bruise on my forehead, although fortunately my glasses had escaped uninjured. Wolfe had a spectacular black eye, but the bruising on his knuckles demonstrated that he had given as good as he had received. Indeed, he appeared to have quite enjoyed the evening’s entertainment. O’Malley was sporting an angry scowl and another piece of plaster across the bridge of his nose – he has these so often I sometimes think he does not look properly dressed without them – and was grumbling that having finally bought a round he never got to drink it. All of us were dishevelled from having slept in our clothes, not to mention the manhandling we had received when we were thrown out onto the street by the angry locals and then marched to the police station by the constables.

We received more than our fair share of malevolent stares and hostile muttering as we walked down the street back to the Malt Shovel. Everyone knows everyone else’s business in a small town like Ruardean and our reputation went before us. I was tempted to explain that it was all an unfortunate mistake, but Wolfe persuaded me against it. Dr Augustus and the carriage from Baskerton Hall were already waiting for us outside the inn. Although he did not pass any comments, he gave the distinct impression that he was not impressed by our professional demeanour. The irate landlady had already informed him of our misadventure, and he was most unreceptive to my attempted explanations.

I had worried that we would cause a further delay by having to pack, but our luggage had already been piled up on the pavement outside. In fact, from the state of my clothes when I opened my case to check the contents, all our effects had been thrown into our luggage and then dropped out of the window. I never did get the creases out of my second-best cuffs. I suspect it was only the Baskerton crest on the carriage door that prevented our belongings being strewn in the gutter.

We had to load the luggage ourselves, under the hostile stares of the Malt Shovel’s staff, our coachman, a man well over seventy, being too elderly to offer any useful help whatsoever. Finally, we managed to get all our baggage, including O’Malley, into carriage and we began the final leg of our journey to Baskerton Hall, a two-hour journey. I hope that I will never visit Ruardean again.

It was clear that we were moving into the more remote parts of the forest, even compared to our journey of yesterday. At least the carriage from the Hall proved much more comfortable than the post coach of the day before, and, despite the state of the roads, somewhat faster, a reflection of the better quality of the horses no doubt. We left the high road for a lane that snaked around the fields and past isolated farms where uncouth dogs barked at the carriage wheels, and through occasional dense patches of trees. Occasionally, we passed areas where the ground had been ploughed up as though by cannon-fire and crude stone buildings huddled beneath mounds of broken earth and stone – the coal mines of the Forest.

“This forest is not what I had expected,” remarked Wolfe.

“Why, what is wrong with it?”

“Why, at home in Prussia, a forest would have more trees. Indeed, it would be trees and little else. Here, everything is all so open.”

“A common misconception,” I explained. “Traditionally, a forest was an area reserved for hunting, either for the local Lords or the King himself. It was managed for that purpose. So, you have large areas of open land, suitable for the chase, and patches of woodland to provide cover and living space for the animals. In these more liberal times, more farming is allowed, but the landscape, and the name, has persisted.”

We were almost at the gates of Baskerton Hall when the road turned a sharp corner and descended into a cutting, between two high banks. Overlooking the road, someone had erected a large wooden sign on which the word NO! had been crudely painted in irregular capital letters. Two scruffy-looking individuals were standing next to it, and they shouted rude words at us when they saw the Baskerton crest on the side of the carriage.

“What is all that about?” I asked Dr Augustus.

“A protest against the new High Speed Tramway,” he explained. “Other people besides Sir Henry object to the new development.”

“I thought you said that the locals were in favour?”

“Oh, these are not locals. These people have come up from London to make their opinions known in person.”

“But why does the sign say a simple No?” asked Wolfe. “Would it not be better if the sign explained what they object to and why?”

“They are activists who object to many things. The sign is both a simple statement of their feelings, and can be used for any protest, saving them the trouble of making a new one each time,” I explained.

 “Activist? What is an ‘activist’?” asked Wolfe. “Perhaps someone keen on running and skipping and physical activity, yes?”

“No, I’m afraid not. An activist is a person who wants things to be changed to the way they want it to be run, and they achieve this, not through rational argument, but by shouting and protesting and jumping up and down and being a general nuisance until they get their own way.”

“But why were they shouting at us? They were objecting to the Baskerton coat of arms, I think. If they and Sir Henry want the Tramway stopped, should they not be friends?”

“The fact that they wanted the same thing didn’t mean they liked each other,” explained Dr Augustus. “Sir Henry detested their uncouth and confrontational methods. They disliked the fact that he was rich and privileged. Also, there was some disagreement because they chose to set up their protest camp to block the path of the tramway on Sir Henry’s land. He objected most strongly.”

“That does not sound the wisest course of action,” said Wolfe. “Why would they antagonise someone who be a powerful supporter of their cause?”

“Something to do with plants I believe. I’ve never been able to find out the details. As a prominent supporter of the tramway, I’ve never been able to have a conversation with them that did not degenerate into aggressive insults within the first minute. They assume that because I disagree with their views, I am not only wrong, but a vile and evil person, unworthy of even the most basic courtesy.”

The carriage drove on, past the activists. Around the next corner we saw the entrance to Baskerton Hall. The gates were opened by a suitably subservient servant, cap in hand, and we got our first view of the Baskerton estate. I was disappointed, but not surprised to see that the grounds had been laid out in the awful modern style to emulate the countryside, with trees, flowering shrubs and bushes arranged more or less at random, in an attempt at creating a ‘picturesque’ vista that looked nothing at all like the genuine countryside we had been driving through for the last two hours. Why anyone would prefer such a hopeless muddle to a proper, organised formal garden, with everything in its proper place in well-ordered, pleasing symmetry escapes me. I assume it’s all down to fashion for ‘romance’. Frankly, all this romanticising of the countryside only brings to my mind images of nymphs and shepherds in a state of undress performing lewd acts in the bushes. Capability Brown has a lot to answer for.

In order to arrive at the house, we had to drive around an unnecessary lake, no doubt completely artificial but constructed as a random shape rather than a pleasing golden ratio rectangle. There was a stone bridge at the far end, crossing the stream that fed the lake. A woman in a maid’s uniform was leaning over the parapet, watching the fast-flowing water. As far as I could see the road across it went nowhere and the bridge had no function other than to have supposed ‘rustic charm’ when viewed from the main house, which loomed back into view at the top of the rise.

If the grounds were in the modern style, then I had at least hoped the house would be in the modern style too; a properly proportioned Georgian mansion, with clean lines, large windows and high ceilings, possibly set-off with a Palladian portico. Alas, from our first view across the manufactured countryside, I saw a dreadful rambling building that could have been built no later than 1650, composed of a hopeless jumble of small towers, gables and wings, all apparently added at random over the centuries as various owners felt the need to make their mark on the family home in the latest architectural style. It reminded me of nothing so much as a wasps’ nest, where each individual builds a piece of the nest to their own requirements without reference to what anyone else is doing. It escapes me why anyone could replace the ordered geometric delight of a Tudor garden with this random and disorganised artificial countryside, while failing to tear down such a medieval monstrosity and replace it with a comfortable, well-proportioned, well-heated and well-lit modern house, but such is the perversity of human nature.

Without warning, Wolfe opened the door and leaped from the moving carriage. He landed heavily, did a half roll to get back to his feet and then sprinted towards the lake, tearing off his jacket as he did so. My first thought was that the poor fellow had finally gone completely insane. Such indomitable good spirits and optimism must be enough to break even the hardiest of spirts in the end. Dr Augustus was banging on the front of the carriage, calling for the driver to stop and O’Malley was so far shaken out of his torpor as to drop his disgusting roll-up. Strangely, it was not Wolfe’s eccentric antics that were causing their excitement. The maid who had been standing on the parapet of the bridge had gone. Of course, my natural assumption was that she had gone back to the house to get on with her work, but then I saw a large ripple expanding across the wide surface of the lake beneath the arch of the bridge.

Wolfe reached the water, plunged in and dived beneath the surface. Augustus and O’Malley were already to running to the edge of the lake. I followed more carefully. The bank was terribly muddy, and I was wearing my new patent leather shoes.

We waited for what seemed an age, but was probably less than a minute, watching the ripples spreading and waiting for Wolfe to reappear. Just as I was starting to panic, he broke the surface with the maid in his arms. Keeping her head above the water with one hand he brought her back to the bank. O’Malley and Dr Augustus waded in to help carry her out of the water and laid her out on the grass. Dr Augustus bent over her and did what he could for the unfortunate girl, while Wolfe and O’Malley moved her arms at the doctor’s instructions.

Nothing makes one feel so utterly worthless as being in an emergency situation that is being dealt by stronger, more capable men than yourself, and you know there is nothing that you can do to help other than stay out of their way and not ask stupid questions. I had a vague idea of casting some summons, but what could help? Fortitude? Tranquillity? And how could I draw a circle on the grass? And, always the problem in any impromptu summons; what was the offering? In the end I wandered over to pick up Wolfe’s jacket with the vague idea of putting it over the maid to keep her from getting a chill. By the time I got back it was clear that things were not going well. The doctor was looking increasingly desperate. The girl was a ghastly white and obviously not breathing. Wolfe sat back from his efforts, a look of keen distress on his face. Suddenly O’Malley looked up to the space above the maid and scowled. He grasped at something invisible with his hands, as though he were wrestling with a snake.

“No ye don’t,” he growled. “Ye get back in there.” He pushed downwards against thin air. The maid gave a gasp and drew in a great lungful of air. Dr Augustus rolled her onto her side as she choked and spluttered up lake water. The colour began to return to her face. Wolfe took his jacket from me and wrapped it around her shoulders. After a few minutes she had recovered enough for Augustus and Wolfe to help her to her feet and half carry her towards the waiting carriage, where the coachman was doing his best to calm the startled horses. I hung back with O’Malley, who had paused to light another disgusting roll-up, a sure sign that the crisis was over.

“O’Malley, what did you just do?”

“Nuffink!”

“No, I saw you. You definitely did…”

He rounded on me in anger.

“No, it were nuffink, alright! I din’ do nuffink.” He turned his back on me and slunk off back to the carriage. Given the stressful nature of the situation I let his rude ill humour and the use of a double negative pass. Nevertheless, the incident was deeply disturbing. Even today, I do not like to think of what the implications might be.

The horses needed no encouragement to make haste to the Hall, despite their long journey. The maid was still half-conscious and shivering with cold. She was young, probably not yet twenty, and under better circumstances, probably quite pretty. Wolfe put an arm around her to keep her warm.

“Do you know this young lady?” he asked Dr Augustus.

“Yes, her name is Rachel. She has been a maid at the hall for, let’s see, about two years I believe.”

 We pulled up outside the main door of the hall. O’Malley and Wolfe carried Rachel out of the carriage under Doctor Augustus’ direction.

“Where’re we takin’ ‘er?” O’Malley asked. “She dun look too well.”

“She needs a warm bed as soon as possible,” replied the doctor.

 “This is hardly an appropriate professional entrance for an important case,” I said. “Let’s get her inside. Things can’t _possibly_ get any worse.”

We staggered through the front door into the entrance hall, a space large enough to contain a small cottage. I gasped in horror at the familiar figure that confronted us. Had I been carrying Rachel I would certainly have dropped her. The figure pointed an accusing finger at me and snarled:

“Thackerey?! What are YOU doing here?!”

I should have remembered the words of a wise man; things can _always_ get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mr Raibert’s Law:](http://freefall.purrsia.com/ff2400/fc02303.htm) Things can always get worse


	4. Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which our heroes meet an old friend_

Standing in the middle of the carpet as though she was the owner of Baskerton Hall stood Captain Nicola Barber of the Widdershins Constabulary. We first met her when we dealt with an unfortunate incident with Sloth and a lamp oil factory back in March. _Editors Note: An account was published as Volume 2 of the Official History of Widdershins, entitled ‘_[ _No Rest for the Wicked_](https://widdershins.storenvy.com/products/1709455-widdershins-vol-2-no-rest-for-the-wicked) _’_. She did not look pleased to see us. Then again, I cannot imagine that she ever looks pleased to see anyone.

“I said, what… ?!” she began, then stopped when she saw the bedraggled maid between Dr Augustus and Wolfe. Ever the professional, she at once took charge of the situation. “Don’t just stand there like a bunch of idiots,” she snapped. “Put her down on the chaise longue. And Thackerey, ring for help.”

I looked round in confusion.

“The bell rope you idiot! The bell rope, right THERE YOU FOOL!” At last I located the strip of cloth hanging from the ceiling that she was pointing to and cautiously gave it a tug. From somewhere inside Baskerton Hall came the faint tinkling of a bell. A large man in butler’s livery appeared, apparently from nowhere, almost as if by magic. Despite his deferential manner, there was something about the weather-beaten face and the look in his eye that said he was no stranger to violence. Of course, part of his job was to answer the door and see any undesirables on their way. A certain resilience and physical prowess, as well as a polished demeanour and impeccable manners, are necessary, especially in the more rural and isolated parts of Britain like the Forest.

“You rang madam,” he asked, entirely unfazed by the arrival of several strangers in the front hall bearing a half-drowned maid.

“Mr Conlon, a glass of brandy for Rachel,” ordered Dr Augustus.

“Will she be alright?” Captain Barber asked him.

“She should be fine,” replied the doctor. “Take her up to her room, get her into dry things and put her to bed, get her warm again.”

“What happened?”

“She… er… fell in the lake.” I said.

“Herr Wolfe here dived in and pulled her out,” explained Dr Augustus. “without his swift intervention, she would surely have drowned.”

“And exactly how,” growled Captain Barber, “did she came to be in the lake in the first place.” She scowled at the three of us, clearly under the entirely unjustified assumption that we were in some way responsible.

“Ah,” said Wolfe, “I hate to break a confidence, but I believe the young lady may have… ah…jumped in deliberately.” Captain Barber looked disappointed that she couldn’t blame us.

 “And why did she throw herself in?” We all looked at each other a little sheepishly. “None of you have even thought to ask her have you?”

“She’s scared an’ upset,” said O’Malley.

“Oh, you think?! Thank you for that deep psychological insight, Sir Issac!” O’Malley made a rude gesture in her direction and slunk into a corner to smoke a disgusting roll-up.

“Well, we have been…” I began, but Captain Barber ignored me and turned to the maid stretched on the chaise longue. Rachel, still shivering from the cold, just looked from one to the other of us, with wild frightened eyes but said nothing. Dr Augustus intervened before Captain Barber could begin an interrogation.

“She’s in shock. We can worry about the hows and the whys later. Right now, she needs dry clothes and her warm bed as quickly as possible. Mr Conlon, if you could…”

We all became aware that the butler was standing watching the proceedings with icy disapproval and had made no attempt to help, or even bring a much-needed glass of brandy.

“By your leave, Ma’am, Sir,” he said. “Rachel has no room here, and no bed. She no longer works at the Hall. I was obliged to give her notice this morning. Without a reference.” Dr Augustus looked surprised.

“Truly? I’ve always found her efficient, pleasant and attentive to her duties. But that is beside the point. She needs to be in a warm dry bed as soon as possible.” The butler held the doctor’s gaze for a full three seconds before he replied.

“Very good sir.” Mr Conlon walked slowly from the hall. Ten seconds later he arrived with a pair of footmen, who looked far more worried and anxious to help than their master. In their wake came the scullery maid with a mop and bucket to clean up the puddles of lake water left in the hall. Almost as an afterthought, he called for a maid to take up a clean nightdress and light the stove in Rachel’s old room in the garret.

Wolfe and the two footmen carried Rachel up the stairs, supervised by Dr Augustus. That left myself, Conlon, Captain Barber and O’Malley in the hall. O’Malley lurked in his corner with a disgusting roll-up; any excitement always gives him a headache. At least, so he claims. I was hovering, unsure whether to go upstairs and help, go to my room or possibly ask for a much-needed cup of tea.

“If that will be all ma’am?” Conlon asked. “I’ll arrange for the gentlemen’s luggage to be taken to their rooms.”

“No, that will not be all!” snapped Captain Barber. “Why exactly have you given Rachel notice and why has she felt the need to end her own life?! Don’t you feel any responsibility for her at all?!”

The butler stiffened. “With respect ma’am, it is Rachel who has brought this on herself by failing to meet the standards expected by the late Sir Henry and the Baskerton household. She has let us all down. I am most… disappointed in her conduct.”

“What did she do? Did you catch her stealing?”

“No ma’am. I regret to say that she has become pregnant. As such, I had no option but to give her notice.”

“What! She gets pregnant and you throw her out on the street?!”

“Sir Henry was a man of high moral integrity, ma’am. He made it quite clear that if a maid should become… in an unfortunate condition, then they would have to leave their position. They all understood this as a condition of their employment when they took the job. And she was hardly being thrown out on the street. Her family lives in the village and they will take her back in. Probably.” I could not but help notice the slight malicious emphasis the butler placed on the last word.

“And that’s it! She gets pregnant and she’s out?”

“I believe that there is a woman in Coleford who is able to make certain… arrangements in circumstances such as these. Should the problem be… ah… removed, then I have always found Rachel a good reliable worker and I would certainly consider inviting her to reapply for her old position.”

“That’s your standard support for a distressed and suicidal young woman is it?”

“I have always believed, ma’am, that a woman should be responsible for her own body.” He gave us a malicious smile. All the blood drained out of Captain Barber’s face. For a moment, I really thought she was going to hit the butler. I would have been quite prepared to stand up in court and swear that she had acted in self-defence. With a visible effort of will she controlled her emotions. It may have been my imagination, but I am sure that I heard her teeth grinding.

The footmen returned from depositing Rachel in the garret, and Mr Conlon took the opportunity turn away from Captain Barber’s glare and order them to unload our luggage from the carriage and take it upstairs to our rooms.

“Perhaps tea in the drawing room after your long journey?” asked Conlon, with his bland smug smile.

“Yes please, that would be very acceptable!” I said, which earned another scowl from Captain Barber. I obvious sounded far too enthusiastic about my own comfort.

We were shown into the drawing room, a gloomy place shrouded in dark wood panelling and crammed with drab furniture which sucked from the room what little light seeped in through the small diamond-paned windows. Although it was the middle of the afternoon, a couple of oil lamps were placed on the table, so we could find our way around to the leather armchairs. Dr Augustus joined us soon afterwards.

“How is Rachel?” asked Captain Barber.

“She’ll be fine. She’s asleep, and I’ve given her a sleeping draft. If someone could look in on her in an hour or two, to make sure she is…”

“Not about to jump out of the window you mean. Don’t you people have any duty of care?”

Dr Augustus looked stung by the rebuke. “Of course! This is the first I have heard of this problem. Had Rachel come to me, why then I am sure that we could have talked it through. This is not the first time a girl has become a mother rather sooner than she intended you know. The Reverend Hervey is quite used to arranging marriages at short notice and regards it as perfectly normal. What surprises me is Rachel’s reaction. Perhaps her young man has decided he will not stand by her. Or of course, the father may in fact be already married. But I know her parents well. I cannot imagine that they will not take her back in with open arms even should the child have no father. There is of course be a certain amount of social stigma, and it will not help her marriage prospects at all, but… I hope we can persuade her that things are not as bad as she fears.”

“Hmph. Make sure of that.”

Wolfe arrived, having changed into a dry set of clothes. As usual, he was unreasonably delighted.

“This is a fine house is it not? We have a large room! Each! With a fireplace with a good coal fire. And feather beds with goose down pillows! Can we survive such luxury? Ah, it reminds me of my Uncle’s house in Bartenstein where we… ACH!” As he walked across the ill-lit room he stumbled over O’Malley’s legs, stretched out across the room where he slouched in an armchair.

“Although perhaps some larger windows would be good.”

Dr Augustus turned to Captain Barber.

“But, now, if I may ask a question of you, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I’m Captain Nicola Barber of Widdershins Constabulary. I’m conducting an investigation.”

”From Widdershins? But when I talked to Superintendent Vole a few days ago he did not think an investigation was worthy of police time.” He flushed at the memory. “He was quite definite on the subject as I recall.”

 “The nature of the investigation is a police matter.”

“You are here at the Hall to interview suspects perhaps?” asked Wolfe.

“No. I’m staying here for the duration of our investigation. We have permission from the family solicitor.”

“Ms Allingham? But I have heard nothing of this!” protested Dr Augustus. Captain Barber shrugged.

“Better ask her about it then.” The doctor rose to his feet.

“I intend to. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my practice and my wife. Good day to you, Ma’am, gentlemen.” He left the room, almost colliding with the maid coming in the opposite direction, bearing a tray of somewhat disappointing tea.

Once the tea had been served and the maid had departed, Captain Barber turned back to us.

“What are you three doing here?” she demanded. “Conlon told me that Augustus would be arriving with three guests, but I never dreamed he would be so desperate as to employ you lot.”

“We have been asked to… that is…er…”

“To desummon a giant hedgehog.” Wolfe finished the sentence for me. Captain Barber gave us one of her long hard looks. We all felt a sudden need to examine our boots. Clearly, she thought we were making fun of her.

“It’s an old family curse associated with the Baskerton family,” I explained hurriedly. “Associated with the Standing Stone at the Hog’s Mouth. We’re here to investigate. At the request of the executors of the Baskerton estate.” I thought it best not to mention the giant footprints that Dr Augustus had seen by Sir Henry’s body. It would only antagonise the Captain and probably get the doctor into trouble if she found out that he had withheld information from the coroner.

 “I take it you are not also here to hunt this monstrous hedgehog?” continued Wolfe.

“My investigation is none of your concern! The last thing I need right now is you three reckless incompetents getting in my way!”

“Come Captain Barber, you are being unfair. We have worked well together in our previous meetings have we not? Are we not competent and full of reck?”

“Full of something.”

“Are you here alone?”

“If you must know, I’m am being assisted by Dr Holbrook, one of our strongest police wizards, and a constable to help with the leg work. We’re all staying in the hall. The other two have been conducting enquires in Coleford. You’ll meet them at dinner tonight.”

“Perhaps we can all work together.”

“No! You can go chasing fairy stories if you want, but don’t get in the way of a police investigation. I don’t suffer fools gladly and Dr Holbrook is even less tolerant that me. Now, if you’’ excuse me.” She rose and left the room. Once he was sure that she had gone, Wolfe turned and grinned at me. To be honest, it was more of a leer.

“How lucky for you that the fair Nicola is here, and in such a romantic location too. I hope you will be both be renewing your _friendship_. It will benefit you both I think.”

“What? Whatever makes you think I am friends with Captain Barber?! She’s some kind of automaton!”

“Ah, but remember that _romantic_ night you spent together in the wood?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, there was nothing improper going on? We were affected by a…” Wolfe held up his hand.

“Of course! It was all down to an enchanted lump of grass! How could I forget!”

“First time I seen someone that ‘appy from steppin’ on a bit o’ grass,” said O’Malley, with a salacious smirk.

“All I did was summon the spirit of tranquillity to help her sleep peacefully.”

Wolfe gave an indulgent, highly irritating smile. “Ah, you British and your respectability. Fear not, your secret is safe with me.” There was no point continuing the discussion. Nothing I could say would ever convince Wolfe and O’Malley that they were wrong.

_Editor’s note: See the previous extract from Professor Thackerey’s memoirs entitled ‘[Angels Guard Thee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052862)’ for a full explanation of this unfortunate misunderstanding. _


	5. A Most Disagreeable Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Herr Wolfe is most rudely snubbed, Mr O’Malley solves the case and Mr Thackerey receives an unwelcome visitor_

A maid showed me to my room. After our enforced departure from the Malt Shovel that morning, I was anticipating at least an hour trying to restore some sort of order, or at least a level of neatness, to my wardrobe. I was surprised and impressed to find that the servants had not only unpacked my clothes and put them away, but they had cleaned my dirty linen from the previous two days and ironed all my crumpled shirts that had been unceremoniously stuffed into my suitcase. Everything had been placed in almost the correct places and I had to spend no more than ten minutes getting everything arranged properly. My nightshirt was laid out on the bed and a jug of hot water was ready on the nightstand for me to wash before I went to down to dinner. The room itself was enormous; the entire upper floor of our office would have fitted inside it. There was a fire burning in the grate, properly protected by a guard, and good candles in the sconces. The bed was the largest, and the most comfortable, that I had ever seen. I began to see the attraction of extreme wealth.

There was, of course, the important question of dressing for dinner. In a grand house such as this, the host might well expect us all to be in evening dress. I did not possess such a thing and of course Wolfe and O’Malley would not have worn it even if they did. Anyway, there was no host present as such, so I hoped that we would be forgiven for any informality. I did put on my best shirt and tie for the occasion as a token effort at correctness.

Of course, I need not have worried. As I suspected, neither Wolfe nor O’Malley had made the least effort to dress. Neither of them had even put on a clean shirt. Captain Barber was, of course still in an immaculate uniform. In the dining room she introduced us to Constable Turner, the young policeman with a fine moustache and a look of permanent worry who had been assigned to her to act as combined assistant, secretary and general dogsbody. We had met him before, during the incident with Dr Price’s staff. Of Dr Holbrook, the police wizard, there was no sign. I was looking forward to meeting him. Finally, there would be someone with whom I could have an intelligent conversation. We took our places at the dining table.  A footman and two maids were waiting to serve our food and wine. The hot food sat in its tureens, the wine sat in our glasses, and all we could do was sit and wait for Dr Holbrook. It would have been rude to have begun to eat before everyone was sitting at the table.  

“He always takes a stroll around the garden before dinner,” explained Captain Barber. “He says it helps his appetite.” She looked disconcerted at having to make an excuse for her colleague.

“I do not know how things are done in Britain,” said Wolfe, “but I feel that we are not welcome guests here. Back home in my uncle’s house, the butler would be here to oversee the feeding of guests.”

“We aren’t really guests and there’s no host as such,” replied Captain Barber. “I think that Mr Conlon is not pleased at having the additional work; having to look after us.” 

 “That butler fella, ‘e need a good kickin’”, said O’Malley.

“He did strike me as a most unpleasant fellow,” I replied. “A strict disciplinarian, but perhaps that’s necessary to manage the staff of a large house.”

“Nah, ‘s more than that. ‘e were enjoyin’ it, chuckin’ some girl out the ‘ouse. See it in ‘is…” He made a vague gesture over my head. “Fella like ‘im, ‘e likes usin’ his power to ‘urt people.”

“We see that all too often,” said Captain Barber. “Such a man is unsuited to be a butler.”

“Shud a’ bin a policeman,” said O’Malley. Captain Barber opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by a sneering drawl from the door.

 “What on earth has the cat dragged in?”. A short, fat man with a bald head walked into the room.  He wore an over-elaborate frock coat of a shocking blue, with a shirt with frilly lace cuffs, purple velvet trousers and shiny shoes with buckles. Wolfe and I rose to greet him. He ignored Wolfe’s outstretched hand and walked past us without even acknowledging our presence. I was insulted and but also relieved; shaking hands is so unhygienic. He sat down at the head of the table, as though he were the host.  

“Barber, who are these… people?”

“Ah, Dr Holbrook,” said Captain Barber. “These are some independent consultants, who have been employed by the Baskerton estate to conduct investigations into… into the circumstances surrounding Sir Henry’s death.” Holbrook looked at us in the way the magistrate had looked at us that morning. He focused on O’Malley.

“Don’t I know you?”

“Dun think so,” said O’Malley.

“Yes, I do know you. You are the reprobate that could see malforms whom I identified a few months ago. Should you not be in basement with the servants?”

O’Malley squinted at him, as though blinded by a very bright light and made an obscene suggestion.

Holbrook ignored the insult and turned to Captain Barber. “And why is he not permanently confined in the asylum as I instructed?”

“There were those who thought his talent could be put to a practical use. The police don’t have the power to have people confined without good reason.”

“Ye wanted to ‘ang me, straight up,” complained O’Malley.

“Mr O’Malley is a valued member of my team,” I said.

“And you would be?”

“Benjamin Thackerey, of Thackerey’s Malform Removals.”

“Ah, _trade_.” He said it in the same tone of voice he would have said ‘paedophile’. “Thackerey, Thackerey... Were you not the fool responsible for the summoning of Sloth? And the destruction of the Theatre? And that terrible fire at the lamp oil factory?”

“All the paperwork was in order,” I protested.

“Honestly Barber, what are you thinking? This person was a minion of that dreadful Fairbairn woman. It was only through the merest fluke that she didn’t allow the populist vote of the idiot masses to do irreparable damage to Magic. These people should be in prison, not sitting down to dinner with us.”

“These three were… quite helpful in bringing the entire case to a successful conclusion,” said Captain Barber grudgingly.

“A situation for which they were responsible. And of which you were entirely unaware.”

“We saved the town!”

“I am sure the town will be most grateful when Ms Fairbairn stands trial. But wait! I was forgetting – you let her escape.”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“She died in the fire!” Captain Barber maintained the official line.

“If she were lucky,” muttered O’Malley.

“I despair for the future, when soft radical policemen like you allow people like this to wander the streets, instead of hanging them. Still, I suppose it is only to be expected when women are allowed into positions of authority.”

“Without the efforts of Captain Barber, Ben and Mal, Ms Fairbairn would be Mayor of Widdershins and your profession would be under great restrictions,” protested Wolfe. “I am sure we can be of help to you too.”

“And what help do you think you can possibly be to me, little man? Whoever you are?”

“Heinrich Wolfe. We are here to investigate the reports of the family curse. The Hedgehog of the Baskertons.”  

“I have never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life. You mean you’re wandering around chasing fairy stories? Ha! An opportunity for you parasites to swindle Sir Henry’s estate more like!” He turned to the servants. “Why are you standing there? Serve the food!” he shouted as he was the one who had been made to wait.

Dinner was served. Like the tea, it was somewhat disappointing, and I realised Wolfe was right (as usual); we were not welcome as guests at Baskerton Hall. The meat was perfectly acceptable, but there was very little of it. There was, however, a very large amount of broccoli, a substance as close to inedible as it is possible to get and still be classed as food. Sometimes, in the small hours of the morning when I cannot sleep, I dread the rise of a dictator who will crush the spirit of humanity, not though draconian laws, punitive taxes and a ruthless secret police, but by forcing us to all to eat nothing but undercooked vegetables.

Wolfe’s attempted pleasant small talk to break the strained silence but even his perpetual good humour was starting to buckle under the strain of  Dr Holbrook’s snubs and sneers. We finished the dessert – a rather peculiar green concoction containing fruit of unknown provenance – and at last, the meal was over. Dr Holbrook rose from the table and looked at us all with contempt.

“To summarise, the only help I can expect in my investigation is a hedge wizard, a peasant, a German and a woman.”

“Pardon me,” said Wolfe, “but I believe you have forgotten Constable Turner.”

“A woodentop? He hardly counts as a person.”

“Show some respect for uniformed officers!” exclaimed Captain Barber.

“And I’ll thank you to show some respect to me. Who do you, a mere uniformed Captain, think you are, talking to me, a senior wizard in that tone of voice? I can end your career with a few strokes of the pen. Your recent performance has hardly been impressive has it? Let’s hope the royal visit in December goes without any problems, or you may be out of the force and have to find a husband to support you.”

Captain Barber glared at him in fury. He smiled back at her, secure in his position and his power over her.

 “All in all, you’re not exactly much use are you?”

“Fortunate then that we are not here to help you,” said Wolfe, “especially as we have no idea what you are investigating. But I am sure that if we were to work as a team…”

“Just stay out of my way, understand?” He walked out of the room, unworried by our glares of dislike. After the door had closed behind him, it was Wolfe who broke the silence.

“Dr Holbrook has achieved what I thought impossible. He has united the five of us.”

“’ow come ‘e’s never ‘ad a nasty fall down the steps to the cells?” asked O’Malley.

“I have iron self-control,” said Captain Barber.  

“If yer want, we’ll say ye were wi’ us all ev’nin’, when ‘e’s found wi’ ‘is ‘ead bashed in tomorrow.” We all looked at him. “Jus’ jokin’ alrigh’?” I am not sure that he was. “Anyway, ‘e did it.”

“Did what?” I asked.

“Dunno. But wha’ever’s goin’ on ‘ere, reckon it were ‘im.”

“And on what do you base this deduction?” asked Captain Barber.

“He’s a complete b*st*rd.”

“Unfortunately, that is not yet a criminal offence. If it was, we would need to build a much bigger prison, and Knott and Son would need to employ additional staff. Anyway, Sir Henry died two weeks ago but no-one in Widdershins had heard of Baskerton Hall until last Tuesday.”

“As I take it we will not be co-operating with the forces of law and order, could you at least give us some indication of your plans, so we do not get in your way?” I asked.

“Perhaps you can tell me where are _you_ are planning to go?”

“Well… er….” It suddenly occurred to me that with all the excitement of the last two days, I had not yet had time to formulate a plan.”

“Perhaps this strange stone at the Hog’s Mouth would be good place to start,” suggested Wolfe. “It is, after all, the place most associated with this giant hedge… I mean with this Embodiment of Justice that we seek.”

“Yes, of course. And we should also see where the body of Sir Henry was found,” I added. Captain Barber fixed her eyes on me.

“Oh, you think that Sir Henry’s death had something to do with this hedgehog, do you?”

“Ah… that is…” I stuttered.

“Do you?” asked Wolfe.

“If you are looking at anything dubious going on round here, I suggest you take a walk up to the protestors camp on Uhtceare Hill. They were the ones making threats against the Baskertons. And I think they’ll be more open with you than the forces of law and order.”

“Thank you for the suggestion.”

\---------------*

After the exertions of the day, we were all ready for an early night. Only when we left the dining room did we realise that a storm was coming with the darkness. By the time we went upstairs to bed, the wind had picked up and the storm clouds had closed the sky like a lid. The house had been gloomy enough during the day, but now everything beyond the circle of light from our candles and lanterns was pitch black.

As the wind rose, so the house began to speak. From all around us came creaks and groans, tapping and banging, whistling and sighing; the sounds of an old and decrepit building moving under the pressure of the storm. The doors moved in the draft and creaked with malicious intent. Candlelight flickering in the draft gave the illusion of something moving in the shadows. If I had been a nervous man, I might have found it most unsettling.

Far more unsettling for me were my reflections on Baskerton Hall. Interacting with others, especially confident and arrogant men like Holbrook, has always been difficult. Since I have been forced to work more closely with Wolfe and O’Malley, especially Wolfe, I believe I have been getting better, but now all my old insecurities had been brought back to the surface. I had always supposed that this would be a difficult case, but these were not the problems I had anticipated. To forget the annoyances of the day and the worries of tomorrow I read for ten minutes by the light of the candle until drowsiness came, then put out my candle and went to sleep.

I was awoken in the middle of the night with a start. Some sound had disturbed my sleep, or had I only dreamed it? I lay awake listening, and the sound came again, audible above the sound of the wind that still sighed around the house. It was the sound of the bedroom door latch slowly lifting. I sat up in bed. By the light of the dying fire, I could see the door of my room slowly start to open.

“Who’s there?!” I called. The door was pulled shut and I thought I heard the rustle of fabric. I leapt out of bed and fumbled for a Congreve to relight my candle. I threw open the door. There was no-one there. I looked down the corridor. In the dim light I could see a ghostly figure, white, as though draped in a sheet or a shroud, vanish around the corner. It was only the vaguest blur; in the excitement of the moment I had forgotten to put my glasses on. I moved after it in pursuit, although I admit I could have pursued it faster; I was not entirely convinced that I wanted to catch it. I reached the corner, but the corridor was empty. Where could it have gone? There were doors on either side of the corridor, but all were closed. Had the figure opened one, I would surely have heard. All was quiet in the house. Slowly, I returned to my room. Only one door was open, but in the opposite direction to that which the ghostly figure had gone. From the bedroom came the sound of loud snoring. Of course, O’Malley always sleeps with his door open; something to do with his traumatic childhood I believe. I went back into my room and this time I locked the door.

What had I seen? Was that a ghost, or was someone trying to sneak into my room? Had it been a ghost, it would not have been trying the handle; it could have simply walked through the wall. The thought did not reassure me. But if it were a person, how it had it managed to vanish into thin air? Before I went back to sleep, I took the poker from the fireplace and kept it close at hand, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know why Jack O’Malley always sleeps with his door open, read [Where the Roses Won’t Die](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103893) by M3zzaTh3M3z.


	6. An Almost Happy Ending and a Much Delayed Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Herr Wolfe enjoys a ride, Mr O’Malley has an unwelcome awakening and Mr Thackerey narrowly avoids an unpleasant encounter._

Next morning, I was awakened from troubled dreams of crossing the channel in a very small second-class railway carriage by the sound of hoofbeats on gravel outside my window. I climbed from my bed, groping for my glasses, and looked out. On the driveway in front of the house, Wolfe sat on a large horse, which had obviously been ridden hard, despite the early hour. Riding pillion was a young man I did not recognise – scarcely more than a boy. He looked worried and a little wild-eyed, but also curiously elated. Wolfe was talking with someone out of my sight; Mr Conlon the butler, from the loud and unsympathetic tone. I could not hear what was said, but there was clearly a difference of opinion. After a few exchanges, Wolfe shrugged and rode around to the side of the house.

I rang the bell, and within five minutes a maid had brought a jug of water up to my room so I could wash and shave, while another came to light the fire in my room; being waited on hand and foot was definitely something I could get used to. Suitably refreshed, I ventured out in search of breakfast. From O’Malley’s open bedroom door came the sound of loud snoring. No surprise there. Captain Barber was already in the dining room, investigating the silver tureens on the sideboard. Again, the meal was somewhat disappointing; I had been hoping for kedgeree. Fortunately, Dr Holbrook had not yet made an appearance. The Captain and I sat at the table in silence. I am never one for small talk at the best of times, and certainly not before the second cup of tea, but the silence made me uncomfortable; I felt I was being rude by not speaking, and in a way, I did want to strike up a conversation with her. It was just that I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Fortunately, the strained silence was broken by Wolfe striding into the room in his shirt sleeves, still wearing a pair of riding boots. Lord knows where he had found them.

“Ah, there is nothing like a vigorous gallop in the early morning before breakfast. What is here?”

“Cold bacon, vulcanised scrambled egg and some rather peculiar sausages,” I grumbled.

“ _Prima_! And here is some bread, fresh from the oven! Ah, at least some bread. What more can a man desire?! Hm, perhaps some proper German Sausages.” He sat down at the table and attacked his laden plate. I poured him a cup of tea.

“Where did you go on your ride?” I asked.

“Oh, I have been down to the village.”

“Where did you get a horse?” asked Captain Barber suspiciously.

“From the stables here at the Hall.”

“You waltzed in and helped yourself?”

“But no! I asked the stable boy and he was delighted to get Mabel ready for me.”

“Mabel?”

“A fine grey mare. Sir Henry’s favourite horse. She was in need of exercise and I was delighted to help.”

“And who did you bring back?” I asked.

“That would be Ned. He is Ms Rachel’s boyfriend.”

“How do you know that?” asked Captain Barber, sharply. Wolfe looked somewhat taken aback, as though the answer was obvious.

“Why, I asked her friends the other maids and they told me. He did not know of the unfortunate events of yesterday.”

“And you went straight over to him, told him she was up the… er, in the family way, she’d got the sack and had jumped in the lake to kill herself?”

“Er… yes?”

“It didn’t occur to you that there might be a few complications, or you needed to perhaps proceed with caution, or at least a little discretion?”

“Sorry, I do not understand. If he is to be a father and his girlfriend is in distress, surely the sooner he hears the news the better?”

Captain Barber rolled her eyes at Wolfe’s bafflement and gave a long sigh. “Men! Now the cat’s out of the bag, how did he take it?”

“He seemed very happy. Upset that Ms Rachel had tried to drown herself obviously, but relieved that both she and the baby will be fine.”

“Did you talk to him on the way over?”

“No, he was strangely silent. Although he did scream loudly when we jumped the hedge to join the main road. Ah, it has been too long since I enjoyed a good gallop.”

“And where is he now?”

“Upstairs, talking to Rachel. I was – ah- disappointed that Mr Conlon made us go to the tradesmen’s entrance.”

“He made you do that? Who does he think he is?” I exclaimed.

“The man in charge. He still does not like us I think, he insisted only Ned went to the back. What else could I do but go with him?”

There was a clatter of wheels and hooves from outside A carriage pulled up at the front door; Dr Augustus had arrived to check on Rachel. We heard him talking to Mr Conlon, but by the time we had finished breakfast and walked out into the hall the doctor had already gone upstairs to check on his patient.

“I don’t suppose O’Malley has put in an appearance?” I asked Wolfe. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask.

“Alas, it is hardly half-past-nine,” replied Wolfe.

“We are supposed to be on a case, you know. Could you do the honours please?”

“Of course.” Wolfe marched purposely up the stairs. From above we heard the sound of raised voices, furniture being knocked around and swearing in at least two languages.

“Do you always have this problem?” asked Captain Barber.

“I’m afraid so,” I replied. “But Wolfe can usually get O’Malley moving, sooner or later. He has this strange hold over him.”

“Some dark secret from his past, no doubt?”

“What? No, more like a cross between a head lock and a half-Nelson. It’s very effective.”

No more than ten minutes later O’Malley came down the stairs, Wolfe close behind, reminiscent of a warder shadowing an untrustworthy prisoner. Although breakfast had already been cleared away we did at least allow O’Malley a cup of coffee, otherwise he would have been impossible all morning. Wolfe smiled at one of the maids and some hot buttered toast appeared, somewhat more appetising than the food we’d been offered for _our_ breakfast.

By the time O’Malley had finished his toast and coffee, consumed his first two disgusting roll-ups of the day and was finally ready to face the world, and Wolfe had changed his shirt and put on his jacket, Dr Augustus came back down followed by Rachel. She was looking much better than when Wolfe had pulled her from the lake the day before; dried out, her hair respectably tied back and with a healthy colour to her rosy cheeks. The fact that she and Ned were wrapped around each other had no doubt also done wonders for her recovery.

The happy couple thanked us with much smiling and shaking of hands. To be honest, most of the thanks went to Wolfe who, after all, had done the hard work. There was a more restrained thanks for O’Malley and I noticed how Rachel looked at him in an odd way; I wonder how much she remembered and what she had experienced in that incident besides the lake. I kept in the background as much as possible; I hadn’t done much to help and anyway, I hate shaking hands. There was the distinct possibility that Rachel might abandon all propriety and start hugging people. The prospect made my flesh crawl.

“I trust I did the right thing by breaking the news to you,” Wolfe asked Ned, with a sideways look at Captain Barber.

“Oh yes, zir,” replied the boy. “Zo good a’ ye. I’s al’ays wanted to ha’ chil’en.”

Mr Conlon stood quietly in a corner, watching the proceedings with sphinx-like disapproval. There could be no prospect of Rachel continuing at the Hall of course, although she seemed pleased enough at the prospect of marriage and domestic bliss. It seemed a step backwards in a promising career to me, but it was her decision to make.

Finally, the goodbyes were complete, and Dr Augustus escorted Ned and Rachel to his carriage. The girl could hardly be expected to walk back to the village in her delicate condition. I could see that Mr Conlon was about to protest about the servants and common villagers using the front entrance, but he was silenced by a look from Dr Augustus. He had to be content with an angry scowl. I felt glad I wasn’t one of his staff who’d be facing the brunt of his displeasure below stairs later.

We stood on the porch and watched the happy couple drive away from the Hall.

“At least we have one happy ending,” said Wolfe cheerfully.

“What sort of place is this anyway, when a girl thinks she has to jump in the lake just because she’s pregnant,” grumbled Captain Barber.

“Fortunate that her boyfriend was so ready to marry her,” I replied. “In a couple of years, I’m sure no-one will look too closely at dates, and they’ll both live happily…”

“If you say ‘ever after’ I’m going to arrest you for excessive sentimentally offending the public decency,” said Captain Barber. I looked at her in alarm and saw the twinkle in her eye. I think even she was happy at the outcome.

“Yeah, ‘cept it ain’t ‘is kid,” said O’Malley, morosely.

“WHAT!” I think we all said it together.

“Mal, how can you be so sure?” asked Wolfe. O’Malley’s only reply was to give us a look and gesture over our heads with his disgusting roll-up.

“You could see the spirit of her unborn child?”

“Nah, course not. I’s inside ‘er, ennit?”

“I thought you said that you can see the spirit above the physical body. If that is the case, the child’s spirit should have been visible outside of the mother’s body!”

“Dun work like that.”

“Why ever not?”

“How in ‘*ll would I know? Ye’re the bl**dy wizard. Ye tell me!”

“Ah, you mean you could see this from Rachel’s spirit?” asked Wolfe, before our discussion degenerated into an argument.

“Aye, an’ she were ‘appy enough, but worried an’ all, ‘specially when ‘e said ‘e always wanted to be a Dad. Ain’t ‘is. Pretty sure ‘e know it an’ all. But ‘e’ll go along wi’ it, ‘cos ‘e likes ‘er.”

“That… that puts an entirely new light on things,” said Captain Barber thoughtfully.

“Dun’ matter, ‘spect all t’other’s ‘ll be ‘is.”

“But that means…”

“Barber!” brayed an unwelcome voice. “There you are!” Somehow, I was not surprised that Dr Holbrook would time his entrance to spoil the moment. He marched around the corner of the house as though he owned it, with Constable Turner right behind him. “What kind of policeman do you call yourself? While you have been enjoying a lay-in and a leisurely breakfast, some of us have already done a morning’s work! You were obviously imbued with Sloth in that fiasco at the lamp oil factory! Or perhaps Widdershins has been visited by Gluttony as well as Sloth!”

Captain Barber opened her mouth to reply, but Holbrook cut her short.

“No, I’m not interested in excuses. Turner and I have already conducted an extensive magical and physical survey of the site where Sir Henry’s body was discovered. We found no sign of any giant hedgehogs, ghostly or otherwise,” he sneered with a disdainful glance in my direction.

 “Do you not find that a hearty breakfast is a perfect start for the day?” asked Wolfe innocently.

“Bah, breakfast is for wimps. I would never defile my body and soul by consuming such an appalling culinary disaster of greasy fat and gristle as a full English breakfast. My body is a temple!”

“A fine thing!” exclaimed Wolfe. “My body too is a temple! Alas, it is a temple to Bacchus!” Looking at Wolfe’s muscular form towering over the short rotund wizard, I could not believe that he was being anything but sarcastic.

“What were you searching for?” I asked. “And did you find anything in your search?”

“None of your business! Now come along Barber! If you’ve quite finished drinking tea, it’s time to get to work. Have the carriage prepared to take us into the village!” He turned his back on us and walked into the house. Apparently, he had seen Ned and Rachel leaving by the front door and was clearly most unimpressed by such a flagrant breach of etiquette. He proceeded to give Mr Conlon a lecture on propriety, how to organise a country house, how to properly manage servants and how to dress properly. I watched with interest. From the expression on Mr Conlon’s face and the slow clenching and unclenching of his large fists, he was clearly not appreciative of the police wizard’s attempts at his continued professional development. Unfortunately, the butler possessed considerably more self-control than I had hoped, and he did nothing more violent than grind his teeth.

By the time Holbrook had finished his lecture, Captain Barber had organised the carriage. If anything, she was even angrier than Conlon. Holbrook climbed in without a word or a backward glance, leaving his two colleagues to scurry after him to get in before they were left behind. A sharp command from the wizard, and the coachman drove off at a brisk pace. At least I would not have to suffer the Holbrook’s presence until the evening. Mr Conlon glared at us and strode off with a face like thunder towards the servants’ domain. We heard his voice raised in displeasure from the depths of the building. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to deal with him again until the evening either.

“Well,” I said, “after all the excitement of the last few days, I do believe that we are finally ready to begin our investigation.”

“Yeah, ’bout, bl**dy time,” grumbled O’Malley.

“Where do we start?” asked Wolfe. “We begin at this mysterious stone at the Hog’s Mouth, yes?”

“No,” I replied. “Our first stop will be to meet these protesters on Sir Henry’s estate.”

“But surely the stone…”

“NO! We start with the protestors! Understand?!” Wolfe was taken aback by the vehemence of my response. Frankly so was I.

“No, let me explain. The protestors want the new High Speed Tramway stopped. So did Sir Henry. Yet there was no love lost between them. Why I wonder? And as for this talk of ancient summoned spirits that have conveniently appeared, I am more inclined to look for a recent summons than an explanation based on superstition. I want to see what sort of people these protesters are, and if any of them had the means, motive and opportunity to do Sir Henry harm. O’Malley can tell us if there are any wizards in the group who might be capable of a summons, or if they possess any dangerous magical artefacts.”

“Yes, but even so…”

“We go to see the protesters!”

“As you say. The protesters it is.”

O’Malley said nothing, but I saw him looking at me, or rather the space above my head, with keen interest. I met his gaze, challenging him to make a comment, but he looked away and lit another disgusting roll-up.


	7. A Flower of Rare Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Herr Wolfe makes a new friend, Mr O’Malley has a horrible cup of tea and Mr Thackerey struggles to be progressive_

To help us conduct our investigations we had been given the use of a Brougham, a small four-wheeler drawn by a single horse. To be honest, it was a trifle cramped for the three of us, especially when one of us was Wolfe. The situation resolved itself when our coachman turned out to be a coachwoman, an attractive young lady called Masie. Wolfe gallantly volunteered to ride outside with her and spent the entire journey in pleasant conversation, verging on mild flirtation. Unfortunately, this meant I had to share the carriage with O’Malley. Neither of us are good conversationalists at the best of times, so we spent the journey politely ignoring each other, myself engrossed in a good book and O’Malley engrossed in smoking disgusting roll-ups while glaring at the passing countryside.

Fortunately, the journey did not take long. The protestors’ camp was located in a small piece of woodland at the base of Uhtceare Hill, about a mile from Baskerton Hall. Maisie pulled the Brougham up as close we could get on the road, but we had to walk up a long footpath to get to the camp.

We rounded the corner beneath the hill and had our first sight of the new High-Speed Tramway. I was impressed. A perfectly straight track had been carved across the unruly countryside, giving structure and symmetry to the ugly, disorganised fields and hedgerows. When it reached the hill, it curved gracefully to follow the contour, shaving the side of the wood into a disciplined edge. Here it came to an abrupt halt, blocked by the protestors’ encampment. Beyond, white-painted poles marked the track where the beautiful geometry would march in triumph towards the rail terminal at Gloucester, but today there was no sign of useful occupation; only an odd gathering of about a dozen activists provoked into unaccustomed activity by our approach. Like poorly trained soldiers preparing to resist an assault, they assembled themselves into a line that blocked our access to their camp and the end of the terminated tramway. They all looked dreadfully scruffy, possibly as a result of their sleeping outdoors but probably as a mark of their rejection of societal norms. I was not surprised that they began that inevitable dreadful chant:

“What do we want?!”

“NO HIGH-SPEED TRAMWAY!”

“When do we want it?!”

“NOW!!”

It always reminds me of a toddler throwing a tantrum until it gets a sweet. Even worse, their demands for something that isn’t happening to stop happening immediately was philologically illogical, but I knew from experience that trying to explain this too them would be a waste of everybody’s time.

Leading the chant was the obvious organiser of the protest, a fine example of the Morally Superior Person. You could tell by his stance and the expression on his face that because his cause was Right and Just, any actions, any speech he made was justified. Anyone who did not agree with him was not only wrong, but a bad person; without any rights or consideration under law or common decency; a person so beneath contempt that it would be morally right, no morally necessary, to hurt, supress and destroy them, everyone associated with them and everything they cared about at every opportunity to the maximum extent possible. Naturally, he had a large beard and a loud voice.

Two characters stood out from his shambolic followers. The first was dressed in a furry body suit, complete with a long fabric tail and a hood that had two droopy ears. A black false animal’s nose was tied to his face with string. The second, standing close behind the leader, was an imposing figure, taller even than Wolfe and somewhat more heavily built, although not as muscular. They were wearing perfectly normal breeches and a loose-fitting jacket. Their hair was close-cropped. The expression on the face was one of deep disapproval and hostility, but there was something epinine about the structure that made my heart sink. 

In this modern age it is of course very important to be progressive at all times, but the large figure could have been a man, a trans woman, a trans man, someone who was non-binary or simply a woman who adopted practical clothes when she was in the countryside. Should I address them as Ms, Mr, Mx and was it he, a she or a they, or even some new set of pronouns I had never heard of? From their expression, they were waiting for the chance to take offence. I suppose I could have asked their forename, but we had not been introduced. One day someone will invent coloured flags for the increasing number of identity options available. Then everyone can wear a little pin on their lapel, and everyone will know where they stand without any social awkwardness.

The Leader of the protestors stepped forward to confront us.

“My name is Horace Bredon. We are here to stop you and your evil schemes to despoil the countryside in a totally non-violent manner!”

“Ah, er, pleased to meet you,” I said, suddenly finding myself at the front of the party. “Er… be assured we are not here regarding the construction of the tramway. We are working for the estate of the late Sir Henry Baskerton, investigating the circumstances regarding his…”

“Ah, …to resolve issues with the disposition of his estate,” interrupted Wolfe. Of course, if we were suspicious of any role these people may have had in his death, it would not be a good idea to tell them that in the first thirty seconds. “My name is Heinrich Wolfe. These are my associates Mr Benjamin Thackerey and Mr Jack O’Malley.”

“Delighted to meet you,” I lied. O’Malley sniffed and nodded in Mr Bredon’s general direction. Fortunately, Wolfe’s hand outstretched in friendship was ignored, so I was saved the horror of shaking hands with these people. None of them looked as though they had washed properly in days. At least it did prompt Mr Bredon to return the compliment, starting with the large person standing beside him, who was introduced as Ms Parrot, at which I breathed an internal sigh of relief. I am afraid that I made no notes of the names of the rest of the activists and now that I come to write my journal I find that I have completely forgotten most of them, so you will excuse me if I do not include them here. I do remember the name of the man dressed in the furry suit, who was introduced as Rex.

“Er… why is he dressed like that?” I asked Mr Bredon.

“Because he’s a dog, of course.”

“He thinks he’s a dog?”

“No. He _is_ a dog, you unprogressive ignoramus.”

“No, he’s a...”

“You are nothing but an unprogressive furry-phobic misocaninist!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. How do you do Mr Rex.”

“Just Rex,” replied the dog. “And I am very well, thank you for asking. Just feel how cold my nose is.” I trust that was only a figure of speech and that he was not too offended when I took a step backwards, just in case it wasn’t.

Rex was accompanied by, Ms Haringay, his fiancée, a frail looking young woman who looked as though she might shatter like glass if she were to fall over. At least she was wearing normal clothes and was apparently a human being.

Once the formalities were out of the way, it was time to get down to business.

“I understand that although both you and Sir Henry were not in favour of the new tramway, there was some disagreement between you?” I asked Mr Bredon.

“Do not talk to me of that man! He was totally full to the brim with privilege and entitlement! He had no understanding of the need to adopt an Alternative Lifestyle to stop humanity’s war on nature! His opposition to the tramway was based only on his own selfish concerns and even that was starting to wane in a totally misguided idea that is was his responsibility to promote the prosperity and well-being of the local community! On the very day of his death he came here and told us that he was betraying Nature and withdrawing his objections to the construction of the tramway! Not only that, he told us to leave his land immediately! Of course, we refused!”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He threatened us with legal action! What else do the rich and powerful do when their privileges are challenged by The People!”

“Were you planning to leave?”

“Certainly not! We would have fought to the last! Our collective is dedicated to the peaceful protection of nature, but as far as I’m concerned his dropping dead of a heart attack is a good thing for everyone!”   

“Heart attack!” exclaimed Ms Parrot. “Sir Henry didn’t die of natural causes!”

“What makes you say that?” I asked. It seemed we were getting information faster than I had hoped.

“Obviously he was a vile rapist, a ravager of the innocent!”

“Ms Parrot! Surely you are suggesting that…”

“But yes! This vile man was preparing to violate the spirit of Nature herself. Could it be that the very soul of this sacred place, the Earth Spirit of the Forest, has risen up and smote down this vile despoiler?”

“No, don’t be silly.” She looked offended. I took myself around to the other side of Wolfe in case she demonstrated her dedication to the peaceful protection of nature in a more forthright manner. She was a lot bigger than me. Fortunately, she confined herself to shouting.

“You cannot possibly defend this rich and arrogant man while poor defenceless animals and plants are exploited! Our opposition to all such men and the society that this vile tramway represents is all part of our mission to create a fair and equal society!”

“Fair and equal?” asked Wolfe innocently. “But surely in an equal society everyone receives the same and has the same, while in a fair society, everyone has the same opportunities but is rewarded based on the use they make of their opportunities; how hard they work, the contribution they make. Surely a society cannot be both ‘equal’ and ‘fair’?”

Ms Parrot turned on him in anger.

“You are no more than a filthy capitalist prescriptionist out to prevent the working class attaining its full potential,” she shouted. Wolfe, as always, was completely unperturbed.

“Ah _es tut mir leid_ ,” he said with an apologetic grin. “I see that my political education is still very incomplete. Please, I would be delighted to hear your ideas in more detail.” As he spoke, he moved to her side and gave her an encouraging smile. Ms Parrot proceeded to bend Wolfe’s ear with a tirade of political dialectics, and he listened to her with rapt attention and a broad delighted smile as though it was the most interesting and enlightening thing he had ever heard. As they talked, he led her away towards the main camp site, breaking up the group. Before we had been facing each other, in opposition. Now we were a group of people, mingling together. Somehow, the tension of the situation had eased. Unfortunately, this left me to talk to Mr Bredon. O’Malley, as usual, slouched around at the rear, not making any contribution, although I knew that he would be studying the characters of our new acquaintances from the spirits he could see above their heads. From his expression, he was not impressed.

Once it was obvious that we had not come to wage war on nature, most of the activists went back to their camp, a clearing hacked crudely from the wood where the undergrowth had been trampled into the mud.  A set of canvas tents had been pitched around the remains of a campfire. Piles of wood torn from the nearby tree were stacked up ready to burn. It appeared to me that the activists had done considerably more damage to the woodland than the careful forestry of the tramway construction, but I refrained from mentioning the fact.

“I understand that your protest concerns rare plants?” I asked Mr Bredon.

“Yes,” he replied, “we are here to protect a beautiful flowering plant, _Paucis minimus,_ the lesser quagweed. Here, let me show it to you.”

I could feel a rant coming on, so I looked around for moral support from my companions. O’Malley had gone to the camp with the rest of the protestors, lured away by promises of a cup of tea. Wolfe had wandered off into the wood, still being harangued by Ms Parrot. Bredon and Rex led me to where a clump of plants stood out from the trampled earth, baring the passage of the tramway. I squatted down to examine them, desperately hoping not to get any more mud on my trousers than was absolutely necessary.

“Are you sure these are rare plants?” I asked. “They look a lot like stinging nettles to me.”

Mr Bredon tut-tutted impatiently. “Not the nettles you ignoramus. The lesser quagweed is this perfect example of creation here.”

“Where?” We looked down to where he was pointing. At the base of the nettles was growing a small plant with tiny white flowers. It was about an inch high.

“Only recorded three times in Britain,” added Rex. “Extremely rare and part of our cultural heritage. It is found in only two other places in the country. Species diversification is one of the most important considerations in Saving the World!”

“And these Philistines want to dig it up to build their dreadful tramway!” exclaimed Mr Bredon. “We will stay here for as long as it takes to foil their plans!”

 “Ah yes, very impressive,” I said. I was hoping to engage Rex in conversation, but at that moment Ms Harrington whistled from the camp and he ran over to her for a biscuit and a saucer of tea. I noticed that he had a string in his costume that he could pull to make his false tail wag when he was happy. Mr Bredon almost looked sad as he watched him go.

 “He puts a brave face on it, and he will never complain himself, but Rex has been most foully treated by the authorities because of his species.”

“Ah, has he?”

“Oh yes. It has taken him two years of constant battle in the courts to get himself legally recognised as a dog. And have the authorities recognised how unprogressive they have been and admit that we all have rights? They have not. They have begun a programme of persecution against him!”

“Oh dear.” I looked to left and right, but it was clear there would be no escape. Over at the campsite, Ms Harringay made Rex sit and wait before she gave him his biscuit and a pat on the head.

“Oh yes! First, they have refused him the right to representation on the clearly speciesist grounds that only human beings are allowed to vote. Next, they insist that as he is a dog, he must have a registered owner who must pay for a licence! And he must wear a collar at all times with his owner’s name and address engraved on it!”

“That does sound…”

“And it gets worse! Because he is a dog, every vicar he has approached has refused to marry him to his fiancée. You saw what a strain she was under of course.”

“Now you put it like that….” I hadn’t noticed a thing, but then, I never do.

“It is blatant discrimination on the grounds of species I tell you! I hope you will support our campaign promoting equal rights for dogs!”

“Well…” Mr Bredon proceeded to explain his views on equal rights for dogs at some length, but I’m sure the reader will forgive me if I do not record them in detail. After what seemed like a very long time indeed, Wolfe reappeared from the woods, Ms Parrot following close behind him. He saw the situation at once and came over to rescue me. Mr Bredon insisted he admire the lesser quagweed, so he got down on his hands and knees and examined the plants closely, regardless of the risk of contamination from the soil or getting stung by the nettles. He gave every appearance of being absolutely fascinated.

“Truly, when I came here, I did not expect to find a flower of such rare beauty!” he exclaimed. He was looking at Ms Parrot as he said it, and do you know, she actually blushed.

“I was expecting something more …impressive,” I said.

“Impressive?!” exclaimed Ms Parrot. “What appalling typical narrow-minded thinking! As though the only value a plant has is how it is perceived by humanity! It is vital that we maintain our native flora! Not only must we preserve our native plants, but also fight to prevent all these foreign species that these botanical fools are bringing in from abroad, which will surely invade the habitat and do untold damage to the countryside!!”

“Aha, of course, I’m sure you are right.”

“And now Ben, but perhaps it is time we left these people in peace,” Wolfe added hurriedly. “We have other places to visit I think.” I was only too glad to agree. We said our polite goodbyes, collected O’Malley from the campsite and walked back towards the Brougham.

“We coulda stopped for another cup o’ tea,” grouched O’Malley.

“I would not have drunk that for a lectureship,” I retorted, shuddering at the memory of the appalling lack of hygiene in the camp.

“Yeah, they reckon a bit o’ dirt is all natural. Good fer ye, like. It were cr*p tea anyway.”

“Then why did you want another cup?”

“When ye’re used to roughin’ it ye ain’t fussy and ye dun turn down summin’ tha’s free, even if they ain’t got no milk.”

“No milk?! You had to drink it _black_?!” I was shocked.

“It must be difficult for them to keep things fresh,” said Wolfe.

“Nah, they pay the grocer down in the village to send the boy up wi’ fresh stuff every day. Tea were black ‘cos they don’t drink milk. Summin’ to do wi’ not exploitin’ animals. They ‘ad a fancy word fer it. They reckon we’re all goin’ to be doin’ that in ten years’ time.” The prospect shook even Wolfe’s indomitable spirit.

“I do not want to live in a world without toasted cheese,” he said with a quaver in his voice.

“Or where it is not longer possible to obtain a proper cup of tea,” I added. 

“Anyway, that were all a bit o’ a waste a time.”

“Oh, I think we have a least made one friend today,” replied Wolfe. “And now we have met these people, we know who they are and what they might be capable of. They did not like Sir Henry, but they would not harm him I think.”

“We learned that Sir Henry was about to allow permission for the tramway,” I added, “and have the activists removed from his land. That must be a motive for wishing him harm. Were any of them wizards? Could any of them have summoned a malicious spirit to harm Sir Henry?”

“Nah. Most of ‘em are ‘ardly there, including that beardy fella. Only one wi’ any…” he made some vague motions with this hands above his head. “… is that big woman, wha’she called, Parrot.”

“Indeed, she has a big heart,” replied Wolfe.

“Did either of you find any of those people a bit… odd,” I asked.

“Perhaps,” said Wolfe. “I am puzzled by the phrase ‘alternative lifestyle’. Pardon, but I think I have perhaps misunderstood. My English is not so good. I have heard this term ‘alternative’ before. Does it not mean the opposite? There is alternative medicine, which does not make you better, and there are alternative comedians, who are not actually funny. Does this not mean that someone with an alternative lifestyle does not have a life?”

“Ah, no, not exactly. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

“What then?”

“Well… that fellow who says he’s a dog.”

“Rex? Surely everyone is entitled to be who they want in this world. If he says he is a dog, why then he is a dog.”

“I suppose so.”

“Ah, you are not comfortable with this I think.”

“Far be it from me to be unprogressive, but he’s not a dog, he’s a man dressed up as a dog! Don’t you think that a man having himself legally declared to be a dog, in the face of all the physiological evidence, is a little… well… silly?”

“Do you object to his wish to be regarded as a dog?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then he is right, and you are right, and everything is quite correct. It would be a poor world indeed where you must agree with the life choices of others, when you do not agree with them yourself. If only a narrow range of views is acceptable, from which any deviation, or any perception of deviation, is immediately challenged by self-appointed vigilantes, then we would be in a very dark place indeed. If you do not object to the fact that he believes himself to be a dog, then how can he, or anyone else, object that you do not believe that he is a dog?”

“Nah, yer wrong anyway” O’Malley told me. “’e’s a dog. I c’n see.” He made a vague gesture to the space above my head. “Yeah, an’ so’s yer new girlfriend,” he said to Wolfe, “but not the way ‘e is.”

Wolfe gave a broad, slightly smug, slightly embarrassed grin. “Ah Mal, I have no idea what you mean.”


	8. The Terror at the Hog's Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which our heroes right an ancient wrong – or possibly wrong and ancient right_

My heart sank when we turned the last corner and saw the man on horseback waiting next to our Brougham. I’ve never trusted horses; dangerous, smelly, wilful, disgusting creatures. I’ve never liked people who ride horses much either. Far too often a man on horseback looks down on you, and not only in a physical manner. Somehow, being on a horse gives a man a sense of privilege and entitlement. Because they are rich enough and powerful enough to own and control their own horse they believe that they have the right to own and control lesser mortals who travel on foot. The rider was dressed in good quality tweed with a fine hat. He looked wealthy. He looked important. He looked uncommonly large and strong. Here was yet another man who would not be pleased to see us, I thought. Then he did something completely unexpected. As we approached, he got down from his horse and held out his hand in welcome.

“Good morning gentlemen. I am John Rumoldew, manager of the high-speed tramway project. Are you here to explain to me why it is a bad idea and the project should be halted immediately? Or are you going to go straight to the threats and insults?” His tone was not the confrontational aggression of Mr Bredon, but more one of ironic humour. Although he was a muscular man, not merely naturally strong like Wolfe, but one who has built up their muscle mass through regular physical exertion, the expression on his face was slightly worried, as though he was indeed expecting us to launch into a vicious attack.

“Ah…” I looked at the outstretched hand in trepidation. It was covered in curious blue scars as though from many long-healed injuries. Even though I was wearing my gloves, didn’t the man realise the dangers of disease from personal contact? Fortunately, as usual Wolfe stepped in to save the situation, stepping in to grasp the man’s hand and shake it vigorously for longer than protocol dictated.

“Mr Rumoldew. Delighted to meet you! Be assured we are not here to insult you. I am Henrich Wolfe and these are my colleagues Benjamin Thackerey and Jack O’Malley.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. O’Malley acknowledged the man with a civil nod and a ’mornin’. High praise indeed. Mr Rumoldew broke into a friendly smile.

“Only I saw you talking with the protesters and I thought that perhaps…”

“Oh no,” I assured him, “we have no opinion on your tramway. We are here to -ah – help resolve certain issues with the estate of the late Sir Henry Baskerton.”

“That’s a relief. You have no idea the amount of grief these protesters have given me.”

“We’ve some idea. We’ve met them. You must dislike them.”

“That’s the thing. They’re good people. They believe that they are right and that they are doing the right thing. I think I am right of course. What I do not understand is the level of personal animosity and incivility they show to me and my employees. To disagree is one thing, but what kind of country are we making for ourselves when we cannot be civil to those we disagree with?”

“But you are sure that you are right?”

 “Oh yes. I started as a miner here in the Forest, as were my father and his father before him. We work hard, mining coal under dangerous conditions. When we were merely keeping the good people of Gloucester and Bristol warm, then we could scrape a living, and thanks to Good King Edward, we kept what money we made. But now the new steam engines need more and more coal to feed their rapacious appetites, coal that sits in the ground beneath our feet. We have invested money and overcome many obstacles to improve the mines and increase output, but our persistence is futile if we cannot transport the coal quickly and cheaply to the ports at Gloucester.”

“Hence the need for the new tramway.”

“Exactly. Horses will pull the laden wagons on rails from the mine heads to Gloucester. If all goes according to plan, we may even be able to acquire a small locomotive to replace the horses. Mind you, I remain to be convinced of the cost-effectiveness and reliability of this new technology.”

“I can see how useful the tramway will be.”

“This is not just a tramway you know. Along the route of the new track we will be installing a lot of new supporting infrastructure – connecting roads, communications, piped clean water, modern housing for the foresters and the new workforce - to drag The Forest and its inhabitants into the 18th century.”

“Pardon me,” interjected Wolfe, “but surely you mean the 19th century.”

Mr Rumoldew took on a resigned look. “The 19th century would be good,” he admitted, “but as an engineer you must learn to be realistic about what is achievable given the resources and materials available. But these innovations will mean the difference between poor subsistence and genuine prosperity for the Foresters.”

“Will they not lose their traditional way of life?” I asked.

“If by that you mean gaining access to health care and proper education, the opportunity to travel more than five miles from the place where they were born, holidays, good housing, clean water and a guaranteed income, yes. I think most of the foresters will be prepared to make the sacrifice. It is the ruling class who object to progress because it challenges their rights and privileges over an oppressed majority. It’s not as though we are simply gouging a path through the forest without regard for the inhabitants. Our surveyors have taken every effort to avoid dwellings and farmlands wherever possible. Over 80% of the track goes through ancient woodland that has never been ploughed and is of no use to anyone. But still, people object.”

“There is the 20% of the track that does go through houses and farms.”

“Yes, but there we have offered most generous compensation to those affected. In fact, the complaints we have from the locals is that the track doesn’t go through their land, so they aren’t getting a pay-out.”

“The activists do not see it that way.”

“All the protestors have come from London. They seem to have this strange idea that the countryside is a vast park provided for their enjoyment, filled with amusingly ignorant but respectful peasants, not a place where people live and work to provide them with the food and the raw materials they rely on.”

“Could you not move the track of your tramway to avoid the rare plants?” asked Wolfe. “The clump did seem rather small.”

“If only it were that easy,” said Mr Rumoldew. “The tramway must follow the contours of the land in order to keep the gradients to a minimum. You can imagine how difficult it will be for a horse to pull a wagon either up or down even a very moderate slope. A change of route would incur enormous additional costs and probably bankrupt the project, especially as the geology is not at all suitable and the other landowners even less sympathetic. The track has already been laid this far. Even if an extra corner were laid to avoid the stinging nettles or whatever they are, there would still be the issue of Sir Henry’s objection to tramway passing across his land.”

“But I thought Sir Henry had withdrawn his objections.”

“I’ve only heard this from Dr Augustus. I am still waiting for an official confirmation from Ms Allingham the solicitor. It is not like her to be so inefficient. You say that you are helping sort out the estate. I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about the current state of play?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We only just heard from Mr Bredon that Sir Henry wished to withdraw his support. Did Sir Henry not tell you himself?”

“Regrettably, we were not on good terms when he passed away. A shame. He, too, was a good man. And now gentlemen, if you will excuse me, it is time for my daily dose of insults and threats. I must ride up to the camp and check that Mr Bredon and his companions are still not prepared to leave and have not done any more damage to our construction or the woodland where they are camped.”

We wished Mr Rumoldew good day. He mounted his horse and rode away up the path to the activists’ encampment.

 “He seemed like a nice man,” said Wolfe as we watched him go. “It is good that last someone is not displeased to see us.”

“You think so?” I asked. “It seems highly suspicious to me. A bit too good to be true.”

“Nah, ‘e were good,” replied O’Malley. “A bit rough, but ‘is ‘eart’s in the right place.”

“That is good enough for us, is it not Ben?” I reflected that this was what I had come to; when someone was polite to me, I immediately suspected them of ulterior motives.

“And now,” exclaimed Wolfe, “on to this mysterious stone at the Hog’s Mouth!”

“Well… no… perhaps… I was thinking….”

“If this is the source of our monster, is this not the place to start looking for it?”

 “I think there may be…”

 “You are reluctant to visit this stone I think.”

 “Nonsense. Whatever makes you say that?”

 “Ye’re scared of it ain’t ye?” said O’Malley, squinting at the space above my head.

“I have no idea what…”

“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed o’. I seen ye do that blubbery b*gger*p at the theatre an’ that sluggy fella at the factory. If ye’re afraid o’ wha’ever this is, then I’m afraid o’ it an’ all.”

“I… that is… if you’d read some of the things I have…”

“Tha’s why not readin’ ‘s good. Ma al’ays used to say tha’ thinkin’ can drive a man crazy.”

Wolfe put an arm around my shoulder. I tried not to quail at the unpleasant bodily contact.

“Come now. It is the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live. Let us stare this beast in the face and... ah… what is the phrase? Give it Hell, yes?”

“Yeah, le’s gi’ it ‘ell.”

“Hell may be close to what we find there. We must be careful. The influence of evil will be very strong. It will try and get inside our minds, influence us, lead us down a path we may later regret.”

“We are all good men and true here, proof against the temptations of evil!”

“Hrmph.” Frankly, I suspect O’Malley would sell his soul to the Devil in an instant, were it were not that his Satanic Majesty would take one look at the goods on offer and demand his money back, but it seemed churlish to comment on the fact at the time.

“Very well then. Let us face this together.” I turned to our coachwoman. “Masie, take us to the Stone at The Hog’s Mouth if you please.” We climbed into the Brougham and began our journey. As before, Wolfe rode outside. He spent most of the journey reassuring our coachwoman that, despite our recent conversation, she would be in no personal danger, because we had a trained wizard in the party who would deal with any threat that might arise. He was very convincing. I just wished there was someone who would convince me.

After about an hour’s journey we reached the common land where the standing stone had been erected at a crossroad. To allay Maisie’s fears, we pulled up a hundred yards away from where the stone stood in its own small enclosure, close to a small wood. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and led the way to confront the terrifying British Heritage.

I suppose that I was expecting a towering black monolith – a spire of polished stone fifty feet high covered with mysterious eldritch runes, imbued with hatred and malice, just like the descriptions I have read of the terrible ancient temples at Stonehenge, Rollright and Avebury, before they were made safe by digging up the stones and dropping their smashed fragments into the deep ocean. Instead, I was looking at a slab of stone perhaps four feet high and perhaps two feet across at its widest point and about nine inches thick. The entire thing was entirely unshaped, without any workings or inscriptions of any kind. It could have been any of the random slabs of stone scattered around the common. If I had walked past it on the road, I would have assumed it to be a farmer’s boundary marker. At some point it had been broken in two – as would be expected if wizards had thrown it down and buried it – but it had been repaired, with the brutal efficiency of an engineer, by large vertical metal bands riveted into the stonework that held the two halves together. To make sure it stayed in place it had been cemented into the ground. It was surrounded by a low fence, presumably built to keep out the sheep grazing on the common, but no-one had bothered to keep the gate closed. An engraved plaque stood by the stone, giving a brief summary of the Baskerton legend, including the role of Winifred of Shortstanding, and a statement from the University of Cambridge Faculty of Magic – for all _that_ was worth – declaring the site completely safe.

We walked into the enclosure and circled the stone warily, as though afraid it might suddenly tear itself from the ground and launch a frenzied attack. I was looking for any inscriptions, but the uneven surface was covered with only moss and lichen.

“ _Lectia phasma_.” I attempted a simple reading. There was nothing there. No wait, perhaps a faint echo of something. Something very confusing. Hardly a proper spirit at all.

“O’Malley, can you see anything?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, pausing to strike a Congreve on the stone’s surface so he could relight his disgusting rollup. “I’s like tha’ stick we went and got at tha’ nutter’s place. I’s ‘ad a spirit stuck in it.”

“You mean it’s an artefact. An imbued artefact.”

“Yeah, wha’ I said, only wi’out any big words.”

“Of course. That would explain how its malice can persist for so long. Well then, what has the stone been imbued with?” O’Malley squinted and walked slowly around the stones, peering in puzzlement at things that only he could see.

“Dunno. I’s a bit…” He made some vague gestures with his hands. “I’s not like that stick, or that stuff they do to t’ railway. I’s more like…  more… fuzzy. An’ I can see marks ‘ere. Bit like writin’ mebbe?”

“That has to be an incantation. What does it say?” He turned and gave me a disgusted look.

“I absolutely must learn you your letters,” I exclaimed. O’Malley did not look enthusiastic at the prospect of his continued professional development.

“Perhaps if Mal could trace the letters onto paper, you could read them?” suggested Wolfe, before an argument could start. He very nobly sacrificed a couple of blank pages from the back of the pocketbook he always carries and leant O’Malley his pencil. After five minutes of unaccustomed mental effort, O’Malley had created a passible tracing of the spell imbued into the stone. It was of course written in the _Lingua Spiritus_ , the language of magic.

_Ubi sunt quattuor viarum occursum, spiritus custodit lapis in aeternum_

“What does this mean?” asked Wolfe.

“My best translation would be:

‘ _Where the four roads meet together,  
His ghost will guard a stone forever_’.”

“Yeah, tha’ figures,” said O’Malley. “’s like sumun’s spirit, stuck in the stone. A ghost.”

“You mean that someone’s spirit has been imbued into the stone. Not a summoning. A person! They’re trapped in there?!”

“Yeah, no, mebbe. I’s more like a b*gg*r*up.”

“A malform? A malform of a person’s spirit?”

“Yeah, that. Whoever stuck ‘im in there must ‘a b*gg*r*d up the spell.”

“But that’s…. that’s terrible.”

“Yeah, that wizard, she must ‘a ‘ad a duff degree an’ all.”

“Hmph. No, I mean that would terrible for the person trapped. It would be against every ethical principle of magic.”

“Is this possible?” asked Wolfe.

“In principal, I suppose, but it would have to be done at the instant of death. Who would want to do such a thing?”

“Perhaps this Ms Winifred attempted to imprison the spirit of the evil Gervaise when he was slain by the Hedgehog,” mused Wolfe. “Given the circumstances, perhaps she was not so worried about ethics.”

“Assuming that this is the spiritual remains of the evil Sir Gervaise.” I turned to O’Malley. “Can you see if that is him?”

“’ow would I know?”

“Can you not see…?”

“Nah, whoever put the stone back up stuck it upside down. All I can see is a pair o’ feet sticking up out o’ th’ ground. An’ ‘s only a b*gg*r*p anyway. Nuffin’ much there.”

“You mean it’s not coherent, not a sentient person? Just a big jumble of confused emotions and urges. What would be left of a human if you took the mind away.”

“An’ b*gg*r*d up th’ spell, yeah.”

“Let us be thankful for small mercies,” said Wolfe. “Why has no-one noticed this before?”

“I can only just detect something. How many wizards, even stronger ones than me, would come here and bother to investigate? Only O’Malley’s ‘talent’ has shown that it was here at all.”

“Now, what do we do about it?”

“We cannot in all conscience allow even a non-sentient remnant of a spirit to remain trapped. We must free it. The obvious thing would be to smash the stone.”

“I think perhaps the locals would be upset if you broke it.”

“I could perhaps desummon the malform. The binding must be very weak after all this time.”

“Will you not release this malice into the world?”

“It should return to the _Spiritus Mundi_ , just like any other malform.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” I saw O’Malley looking above my head, and the expression on his face. “Reasonably certain… probably… I’m sure it will be for the best.”

“Then let us get started.”

The first problem was where to draw the desummoning circle. The stone was fixed into the ground with rough concrete, large enough to draw a circle on with room for me to sit inside it, although the rough surface presented a few difficulties. A more challenging problem was how I could perform the desummoning without getting my trousers dirty; the sheep had been everywhere. Fortunately, Wolfe went to the Brougham and Maisie brought me a cushion and a saddle cloth for me to sit on. This was not going to be a standard incantation, but I’d had plenty of practice over the last six months, and it is always easier to send something home than to summon it to do your bidding.

I sat down cross-legged and began the chant. The glowing walls of the desummoning circle rose around me. On the first attempt I failed to get the spell to function, but on the second attempt, I managed to get the incantation to bite and felt the binding around the stone release and the imprisoned spirit within disperse. Not so difficult after all. I released the circle and the walls faded away, and saw Wolfe, O’Malley and Maisie demonstrating their confidence in my wizardly ability by watching the proceedings from much further away than was strictly necessary. I stood up, brushing the soil from my trousers. They were not as dirty as I had feared, and I comforted myself with the thought that I would have servants to clean them for me that night.

“That seemed to go well,” said Wolfe. “Now we can…”

“Duck!” screamed O’Malley and threw himself full-length in the dirt.

“What…” I began, and then a shrill scream sounded in my ear, like the shriek of a bat, ten times intensified. For a moment I wondered if something might have given way in my brain. It was the most hideous thing I had ever heard, but I could discern no intelligence in it. Maisie shrieked and threw herself into Wolfe’s arms. Wolfe looked slightly perturbed. The scream rushed away into the distance.

“…was that?”

“Wha’ever it were tha’ ye just let out,” said O’Malley, getting to his feet.

“But… but I desummoned it. It will have returned to the _Spiritus Mundi_!”

“Yeah, well, ye missed a bit.”

“Is it dangerous?” asked Wolfe, who still had Maisie clinging to him in a most improper fashion.

“Nah, dun think so. ‘s a bit of an echo, is all. Nuffin’ thinkin’ or nuffin’”

“But it has gone now, yes?”

“Nah, ‘s flyin’ round and round the common. Reckon it’ll come back to the stone every now an’ then.”

 “Now we should leave,” said Wolfe. “We have scared Masie I think, and I most certainly do not wish to encounter that… that _Gespenst_ again.” He made no attempt to disentangle himself from the young woman.

“An’ we should go before summun’ finds out what ye did,” added O’Malley.

“If it is a fragment, then it should not last long,” I assured them. 

Nevertheless, we hurried back to the Brougham and returned to Baskerton Hall without any unnecessary delay. Wolfe drove; Maisie was still too upset to take the reins. Inside the coach, I reviewed the situation with O’Malley.

“Is there anything left in the stone?” I asked him.

“Nah, ye broke it good an’ proper,” he assured me.

“And do you think whatever was in the stone could have caused the death of Sir Henry?”

“Dun see how, it were stuck inside. Not really anything there. Nuffin’ that were thinkin’ anyhow. Course, now i’s out…” He grinned at me maliciously.

“You think we…”

“You.”

“… I have released a malicious spirit into the world? Then we must go back and finish the desummoning!” That wiped the smile from his face.

“Nah, is nuffin’ much. Only a scream. Be goin’ round the common, but it won’ hurt no’un. Anyhow, ‘s goin’ so fast we’ll never catch hold o’ it.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Prob’ly best not to tell yer woman Cap’n Barber tha’ ‘s yer fault though.”

“She is _not_ my woman.” O’Malley grinned and lit another disgusting roll-up. We both knew he was giving me good advice.

\----------------*

It was late afternoon by the time we got back to Baskerton Hall. Of course, first I had to go and change my clothes. O’Malley slunk off somewhere to avoid the police, who he claimed gave him a headache. Maisie was still upset, so Wolfe gallantly volunteered to help her put away the tired horse.

By the time I left my room to come downstairs for dinner, it was getting dark outside and the servants were lighting the lamps. From the landing I heard loud voices from the hall below; the unmistakable arrogant braying of Dr Holbrook, the deep, barely respectful rumble of Mr Conlon and the softer voice of Captain Barber, full of repressed anger. I paused. After a long and difficult day, I did not relish having to talk to the police wizard, or rather have him talking at me. But if I spent all my time avoiding him, running from him, why then he would win and I resolved I could not let that happen. I’d already faced down the horror of a standing stone that afternoon. I stiffened my resolve and walked down the stairs, although I will admit I walked as slowly as possible.  
  


In the hall, Captain Barber and Mr Conlon were being harangued by Dr Holbrook. The hall clock stood at five minutes past seven; dinner was late. Dr Holbrook was not pleased that no food had appeared on the dot at seven, the respectable time for dinner to be served. Constable Turner stood behind his Captain, doing his best to offer silent moral support, but looking like a man who wants more than anything to hide behind the sofa. O’Malley was lurking around a corner, out of their line of sight; strong emotion always disagrees with him. Wolfe arrived from outside, terribly late and he hadn’t even changed his clothes. What he had been doing all this time and how he had contrived to get himself covered in straw I could not imagine.

The harangue only ended when several footmen appeared with covered tureens and headed into the dining room. We all followed them. I suddenly realised how hungry I was and wondered what delights we would be offered tonight. From our previous experiences, I was not optimistic, especially as the fetid smell that accompanied the tureens indicated that either the drains were blocked or the meal contained a significant amount of brassicas.

The footmen stood poised to serve us, Mr Conlon again having demonstrated his opinion of us by vanishing back into the bowels of the house, we all sat at our places – except Dr Holbrook.

“Now, I shall take my constitutional walk through the gardens before dinner,” he announced. “Do not start without me.” Before we could reply he swept from the room.

 “I do not understand,” said Wolfe. “Dr Holbrook was impatient to eat and now he is keeping us all waiting.”

“It’s all about power,” Captain Barber said, her voice shaking with barely controlled fury. “He makes us hurry and then he makes us wait. Because he can.” With that she got to her feet and stormed out of the room, so full of fury it was impossible for her to sit still. I was hoping that she might be on her way to give Dr Holbrook a piece of her mind, but she only went into the hall.

O’Malley watched her go with amusement.

“D’ye reckon tha’s possible f’ sum’n to get so angry that they burst?”

“Ah, Mal friend Ben has never done so, despite your best efforts,” replied Wolfe.

O’Malley looked at the space above my head.

“Nah, ‘e’s an amateur compared t’ ‘er.”

“Er… what’s for dinner?” asked Constable Turner, embarrassed by the scene his superior officers were causing. Wolfe carefully lifted the lid of one of the tureens.

“I suspect this may be macaroni cheese, but I am not entirely certain. _Na ja_ , after my wish for cheese today, I cannot complain.”

“Yeah, ye can,” said O’Malley.

“What’re these green bits?” asked Turner.

“That would be the broccoli sir,” replied the footman. I could have sworn he looked embarrassed by Baskerton Hall’s hospitality.

“Are you sure?” asked Wolfe. “It looks much like the fungus that grows in that mouldy cheese you like, Ben.”

“It’s called Stilton, and it tastes far better than broccoli.”

“Let us hope that our friend the wizard returns before this macaroni cheese sets.”

Suddenly, we heard a terrible scream. It took a moment to realise that is was coming from outside the house. It came again, closer and then there was a dreadful banging and rattling on the door. The screaming became a hysterical whimpering, a pleading to be let in. We rushed into the hall. For once Mr Conlon, the guardian of the threshold, was not in attendance. The footman looked to us for guidance. Captain Barber, the woman of action, was already at the door.

“It’s locked!” she shouted. “Where’s the d*mned key?!”

We looked around the hall desperately. From the screams, someone was being murdered on the other side of the door. Wolfe found the key on the side table at the far end of the hall. He rushed to unlock the door and threw it open. Dr Holbrook, his eyes wild with terror, almost fell into his arms.

“It’s here!” he screamed. “I’ve seen it! The Hedgehog of the Baskertons!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Stone at Hog's Mouth is inspired by [the MacPhee Stone](https://marccalhoun.blogspot.com/2015/01/carraig-mhic-phi-macphee-stone-colonsay.html) on the island of Colonsay


	9. The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Herr Wolfe enjoys a little schadenfreude, Mr O’Malley practises his gurning and Mr Thackerey gets his shoes dirty again_

Captain Barber already had her night stick in her hand.

“Come on! Now’s our chance to get this thing once and for all!” She rushed out into the darkness with Turner right behind her. I was ready to follow her. O’Malley looked somewhat more reluctant. Wolfe grasped Dr Holbrook by the arm to bring him along.

“Come my friend, show us where this _Teufel_ is and we will face it together, yes?”

Dr Holbrook shrank back, trying to break away from his grasp.

“NO!! I’M NOT GOING OUT THERE!”

“Come now. You have a duff wizard, a peasant, a German, a woodentop and a woman to look after you. What is there to fear?” He tried to urge Holbrook over the threshold, but the man collapsed to his knees, sobbing in hysterical terror. Wolfe shrugged and left the police wizard in the care of the footmen. Before we all ventured into the garden Wolfe had the good sense to borrow one of the lanterns hanging up in the porch. We could hear Captain Barber shouting and clattering in the bushes that lined the drive at the front of the house.

“Where should we look?” asked Wolfe. “Perhaps if we split up….”

“B*ll*cks to that,” said O’Malley. “Le’s stick together. Look after each other. Anyway, ye’re th’ only one w’ a light.”

“We should head for the lawn,” I said. “It’s around the back of the house. That’s where Sir Henry’s body was found so perhaps that is where the creature has manifested again.”

“Then let us go!” Wolfe led the way. I followed close behind. O’Malley brought up the rear, unwilling to be near the front but not wanting to leave the circle of light thrown by the lantern either. We walked around the house to reach the lawn, a large open area of carefully mown grass, circled by a gravel path between flower beds and enclosed on three sides by dense shrubbery. The bushes looked sinister in the darkness. Although we could see nothing in the open space of the lawn, a monstrous hedgehog could have been hiding in every shadow. If only Sir Henry had kept a properly ordered formal garden, with nothing more than eighteen inches tall, rather than an awful bucolic tangle of bushes.

“Wait. Keep to the path,” I advised Wolfe in a whisper, remembering just in time not to lay a restraining hand on his arm; in my hurry to catch the monster I had left my gloves in the house.

“Ah I see. You wish to keep under cover.”

“No, I don’t want to get my shoes dirty. I wore my best ones for dinner.”

“Mal, do you see anything?”

“Nah. ‘S dark.”

“But when you see spirits, they shine brightly do they not. You should be able to see them.

“S’pose so. Dunno. Can’t see nuffin’.”

We advanced warily around the lawn. In my efforts to avoid the lawn I stepped off the path. Wolfe turned to me in surprise.

“Why Ben, I did not know that you swore like that.”

“Justified under the circumstances,” I replied. “I just stepped into the flower bed and now I have mud all over my shoes! Ah! And I’ve just torn my trousers on this wretched rose bush! This is what swearing is for!”

 “Shine yer light ‘ere,” said O’Malley. Wolfe directed his lantern onto the ground where I had stumbled.

“Thanks, but I think I can see…” I began.

“Yeah, get outta the way.” I got back on the path. O’Malley was not interested in my shoes at all, but the flower bed itself.

“What are you looking for?” asked Wolfe.

“Footprints. ‘s where tha’ Doctor fella said there were footprints. In th’ flowerbed, remember?”

“Ah yes, the footprints of a gigantic hedgehog.” We examined the bare earth, still damp from the storm of the night before. The only footprints visible were my size eight patent leathers.  

Suddenly there came a great sound from behind us; a dull thud as though some huge slab of stone had fallen into place. We were all occupied in examining the flower bed and looked round in trepidation. Fortunately, the lawn was still empty of giant hedgehogs, or indeed any other sort of supernatural apparition, but a faint breeze wafted across the open space, bringing the smell of earth and damp and decay. The thought of an open grave flashed across my mind.

The sound had come from the bushes on the other side of the lawn. Wolfe was already running towards it and I followed close behind. Having got mud all over my best shoes there was little point avoiding the wet grass. Wolfe shone his lantern along the wall of tangled branches, a six feet high apparently impenetrable wall. Then he noticed a small gap and plunged through, dislodging a storm of twigs and water, most of which fell over me as I followed him. Naturally, I had also worn my best jacket for dinner. The gap led to small cleared area amid the shrubbery. Here the hedge was only a few inches thick, making space for a small wooden arbour with a stone bench beneath it, a typical design feature of such a garden, where one might come for peaceful contemplation. No doubt a cool, shaded place on a hot summer’s afternoon, it was dark and forbidding at night. Wolfe shone his lantern around, but we could see no sign of any hedgehog, or anything that might have caused the sound. I started when the light revealed a figure half-hidden in the foliage, but it was only a statue of a young woman in a state of undress, positioned so it could be viewed from the bench, a barely respectable arrangement.

I turned at the sound of rustling leaves behind me and suppressed an exclamation of fear at the horrible sight that confronted me. A grotesque face was peering from out of the hedge, just feet from mine. It was large and smooth, with beads of water on the forehead. The features were contorted into a grotesque expression, the eyes tightly shut but the mouth wide open to reveal crooked teeth. Wolfe heard my stifled cry and turned his lantern so I could see the face in all its horror, with the long uncombed black hair streaked with grey.

“O’Malley!” I exclaimed. “What on earth do you think you are doing?!” O’Malley open his eyes and resumed his usual sarcastic smirk.

“Heh, med ye jump, di’n I?”

“There’s a potentially dangerous summons out here! This is no time for Punch-and-Judy antics! Honestly, how could anyone think that we are trained professionals?”

“They don’t.”

 “Have you seen anything Mal?” Wolfe asked, before we could start another argument. O’Malley extracted himself from the hedge and walked around to the arbour, brushing leaves from his hair.

 “Nah, reckon wha’ever it were ‘as gone. If there were ever anythin’ ‘ere at all.” He rummaged in his pocket for his tobacco pouch and made himself one of his disgusting roll-ups, which he proceeded to light from Wolfe’s lantern, to save using a Congreve.

“ _Lecta Phasmia_.” I tried a reading to see if there was any magic in the area. Nothing. Just the sounds of Nicola Barber shouting from the lawn behind us, demanding to know where we were and what we thought we were doing. Wolfe stuck his head through the gap in the bushes and called her over.

“We thought we heard a sound from over here,” I explained. “And I smelt something, like damp and decay.”

“What you’d expect in an overgrown garden after heavy rain. Did you see anything?”

“Nothing, but we were examining the flower beds on the far side of the lawn at the time.”

“So, an entire platoon of illegal summons could have marched across the lawn and you’d not have noticed. Could it have come this way? Turner, see if there are any tracks.” Turner shone his lantern on the ground in the passage and the arbour. It was covered in footprints. Mine and Wolfe’s and O’Malley’s. If there had been any sign of the footprints of a gigantic hedgehog, they had been well and truly obscured. Captain Barber snorted in disgust.

“I wish you amateurs would stay out of my way!”

“Did _you_ find anything?” Wolfe asked her innocently.

“No sign of anyone, human, summons or ghost. There’s nothing out here. Let’s get back inside.”

In fact, we spent another futile quarter of an hour looking through the dark maze of the garden before we finally gave up and went back to the house. Whatever had scared Doctor Holbrook had vanished completely. Mr Conlon was waiting for us in the hallway, his usually contained and disapproving self.

“Ma’am, Sirs. Did you apprehend the hedgehog?”

“No, it’s vanished,” I told him, struggling to take off my dirty shoes without getting my hands dirty. I did not want to tread mud all through the house, even if the others did not seem to care.

“Ah, perhaps that is for the best. Far be it for me to forward an opinion, but I fear that Dr Holbrook may perhaps be a trifle over-emotional and possibly imagining things. The legend of the Hedgehog is only a story that parents tell their children to stop them wandering in the Forest. No good can come of Ladies and Gentlemen giving credence to old superstitions.”

“Something seems to have frightened Dr Holbrook out of his wits.”

“He did appear a little distressed. Perhaps he has had a mental breakdown. Such things are not unknown in wizards I believe. Or perhaps he has fallen prey to recreational narcotics.”

“Where is he?” asked Captain Barber.

“Waiting in the drawing room I believe.”

At first, we thought Conlon must be mistaken. There was no sign of Holbrook in the drawing room. Then we heard a faint whimpering sound and found him hiding under the table, his knees drawn up under his chin. It took us ten minutes to persuade him to come out and go to bed, and even then, Constable Turner had to sleep in the same room with a candle burning. Once we had finally settled him down, we went back into the dining room for our much-delayed dinner.

Unfortunately, the macaroni cheese had set solid and proved impossible to remove from the cold tureens, despite Wolfe’s best efforts. Whoever did the washing-up was going to need a chisel. As the footmen cleared the ruined meal away, I suddenly realised how hungry I was. There had been no opportunity to stop for lunch.

“Is there perhaps something cold for us to eat?” asked Wolfe despairingly. “Something that is _supposed_ to be eaten cold,” he added with a final look of horror at the remains of our dinner.

“Well sir,” replied a footman, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner, “I know that cook ain’t too pleased at what she’s been serving – thinks it’s ain’t credit for the ‘all or for ‘er. Mr Conlon’ll be outta the way now, but I ‘eard you talkin’ about cheese earlier on. I’m sure we can find you up a little sumt’in’.”

“ _Prima_. Now let us retire to the drawing room and we can tell the good Captain about our exciting day.”

Back in the comfortable chairs of the drawing room we gave Captain Barber a brief summary of our adventures, leaving out the bound spirit and my attempts to desummon it at the Hog’s Mouth. We didn’t need to tell her about _all_ about our exciting day.

 “And how was your day?” I asked.

“You don’t need to know. How many times have I told you that our work here is confidential?”

“But surely…”

A pair of footmen ended any further discussion on the subject by arriving with several plates of toasted cheese. It may have been because I was hungry, but it was one of the most enjoyable meals that I have ever had. Captain Barber was a good enough officer to remember to ask that some be sent up to Constable Turner and, almost as an afterthought, Dr Holbrook.

Once our plates were empty, I felt it time to get back to discussing the night’s excitement.

“What of tonight’s incident? Do you think Holbrook saw the Hedgehog?”

“Something scared him,” replied Wolfe.

“But we saw nothing. Could it have been a malform?” asked Captain Barber.

“Din see one,” said O’Malley.

“I don’t think so,” I added. “A malform has some physical presence but is invisible. And Holbrook said he saw something. Surely an invisible malform would not have scared him so.”

“Could it be some malicious summons that was desummoned again before we got there?”

“There would hardly have been time. Anyway, the glow of any kind of summoning circle would have stood out in that dark garden like a beacon. And who could have done it?”

“You.”

“Me?! I was with you all evening!”

“No you weren’t. You could have summoned something before you came down to dinner and desummoned it while Turner and I were searching at the front of the house.”

“Do you honestly think that I would…”

“No, as a matter of fact I don’t. Not with your duff degree. In my opinion this ridiculous ‘Hedgehog of the Baskertons’ is just some made-up fantasy to mislead gullible idiots and cover up what’s actually going on here.” I reddened in anger and opened my mouth to reply.

“Then could it be something in his mind?” asked Wolfe quickly. “As Mr Conlon said, wizards are never the most stable people and they do have… problems.”

“It’s called incantation psychosis.” I explained. “A complete collapse of the mind through the over-exertion caused by casting. Not uncommon with first-year students who have yet to find their limits, but most unusual in such a strong and experienced wizard as Dr Holbrook. Has he been exerting himself magically as part of the police investigation?”

“That is a possibility,” admitted Captain Barber. “He’s been involved in some serious magic.”

“Wha’ bout ‘im bein’ stoned?” asked O’Malley. “Met plenty ‘a people seein’ all sorts of stuff when they’re off their ‘ead”.

“Why yes,” said Wolfe. “Remember that pleasant American and his friend the invisible giant white rabbit that we met on our travels?”

“Yeah, but ‘e were only a drunk, and the rabbit were real.”

“Does Dr Holbrook take drugs?” I asked, before the conversation could veer off in an unexpected direction.

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Captain Barber with a scowl. “If I’d found out he did he would have been out of the force so fast his feet would not have touched the floor. Trust me on that.”

“Which would be a good reason for him to conceal his drug use from you. Perhaps this would explain his evening strolls?”

“Hm.” Captain Barber noticed Holbrook’s expensive jacket lying crumpled in a corner of the room. “Perhaps I’ll just check his pockets.” She walked over and picked the jacket up but then paused and looked at it in amazement. She turned around and showed it to us. The back was torn by three parallel rents, that might have been made by a set of huge sharp claws, seeking to disembowel a man, but only catching the fabric of his coat as he turned to flee. O’Malley muttered an obscenity under his breath.

“Ah,” said Wolfe. “It would appear that the Hedgehog of the Baskertons is real after all.”


	10. The Hedgehog of the Invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Mr Thackerey has more than one disturbing encounter_

Captain Barber scowled at the torn jacket. I have the distinct impression that she has no patience with physical evidence that contradicts her opinion about a case. Without bothering to reply to Wolfe, she rummaged through the pockets. Her mood did not improve when she found no evidence of recreational narcotics; only a wallet, a portable ink well, a pen and nibs, a couple of sticks of chalk, a ring of keys (I felt an shameful stab of envy when I saw the distinctive ornate key of a Fellow of The University), a handkerchief and a small pocket book, exactly what you would expect to find in a wizard’s pockets. Out of habit she opened the wallet and checked the validity of Dr Holbrook’s wizard licence. It was, of course, up to date.

“So much for that theory,” she growled and stuffed everything back into the pockets – the wrong pockets, although I thought it prudent not to point this out. “It’s been a long day. I’m turning in.” Wolfe and I scrambled to our feet as she left the room, but our politeness only earned us a disapproving glare. O’Malley, of course, remained slouched horizontally in his chair, smoking a disgusting roll-up.

“And now?” asked Wolfe once she had gone. “We have dealt with the stone. We have seen the protestors. The gigantic hedgehog has made an appearance and then vanished without trace. What is our next move?”

“We’re here to investigate this hedgehog,” I replied. “Where did it come from? And where did it go? There is one possibility, but I hesitate to propose it. There are certain grave difficulties.”

“Were tha’ a pun?” asked O’Malley.

“You said that immediately before Holbrook was attacked, Captain Barber was a little angry.”

“Nah.”

“No?”

“Nah. She weren’t a little angry. She w’ so angry she w’ ready to tear sum’un’s head off.”

“Exactly. It’s well known that strong emotions can cause manifestations even without the proper summoning circles or rituals. Perhaps Captain Barber’s intense anger summoned the monster, possibly an incarnation of Wrath or Vengeance, to attack Holbrook.”

“An interesting theory,” said Wolfe. “But you say there are objections?”

“Such events have only ever been known to occur in the immediate vicinity of the Anchor, and usually at least two or even three people all expressing the same strong emotion are necessary to call forth a manifestation. The emotion would have to be extremely intense in a single individual to trigger an uncontrolled summons.”

“The fair Nicola has enough anger for three people, I think. But as for an Anchor, could there be such a thing here?”

“Impossible. It would have been discovered long ago.”

“Impossible? Ah, I distrust that word. But perhaps there is some artefact, some residual magic from the rebellion, that has only now been awakened.”

“Ain’t seen nuffink like that nowhere.”

“And I see another problem,” added Wolfe. “Nicola may be full of anger, but she is also an upholder of the law. She told us she has iron control of her emotions. Even if she could reach out and summon such a monster, she would never turn it loose, even against such a man as Dr Holbrook.”

“She may not have had a choice. Emotions are not always ruled by the rational mind. If there is something out there causing strong emotions to manifest, then even the most enlightened person will have no power to command it.”

“A frightening thought. We must all be sure to keep our emotions under close control.”

“Ye’ll both be fine,” O’Malley reassured us. “Wolfe ye ain’t got a bad thought in yer ‘head and Ben, ye ain’t got enough to light a candle.”

“Hmph. Thank you for that.”

“Ye’re welcome.”

“Could we search for a possible cause tomorrow?” asked Wolfe. “Where would we start?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It has been a long day, and I would like to sleep on it. But the answer would seem to be here at the Hall, where the manifestations have occurred. Tomorrow, perhaps we should examine the grounds – and possibly the house itself – in more detail.”

“An excellent suggestion. I too am tired. Let us discuss this in the morning.”

We left the drawing room and walked down the long wood-panelled corridor leading to the stairs. As is usual in manor houses, it was hung with a collection of oil paintings, mostly portraits of the Baskerton family. 

“This would be the ancestors I take it,” said Wolfe, unable to resist a closer look. He held his candle to read the name plates of the bewigged squires glaring at us from the canvases. “This is the cause of all our trouble, the evil Sir Gerald Baskerton.” He indicated a portrait of an overweight, arrogant man, whose jowls and petulant scowl gave him the look of a malevolent amphibian. It may have been the candlelight, or the technique of the artist, or just the way the painting had aged over the years, but Sir Gerald’s skin was a most peculiar shade of orange and his wig an unnatural yellow.

“He ain’t no oil paintin’ is ‘e?” said O’Malley. “Wa’s wrong wi ‘is ‘air?”

“Oh that’s a wig,” I explained. “They all wore them in the 17th century.” O’Malley leaned in for a closer look.

“Nah, tha’s gotta be ‘is real ‘air.”

“What makes you so sure?” asked Wolfe.

“Who’d make a wig tha’ looked like that?”

We moved down the row of paintings.

“And this is Sir George,” said Wolfe, “Sir Gerald’s son, who restored the honour of his house.” The man in the painting looked rather bland compared to his father. For some reason Wolfe lingered, scrutinising the portrait with intense interest.

“What’s so fascinating?” I asked.

“Hm, this portrait. I am sure I have seen this man before.”

“Prob’ly walkin’ round wi’ ‘is ‘ead under ‘is arm,” said O’Malley unhelpfully.

“No, no, that I would have remembered. Still, he is disturbingly familiar.” He shrugged. “ _Na ja_ , perhaps it will come back to me.” O’Malley and I came over and had a closer look. I had never seen the man before in my life.

“He dun look much like his Da’, do ‘e?”

“If that was a fair representation of Sir Gerald, and given his unpleasant reputation, it would be no surprise if Sir George is not in fact his son.”

Our cultural interlude over, we went up the stairs together.

“Sweet dreams,” said Wolfe as he reached his bedroom door. I turned to him sharply.

“Why do you say that?” He looked at me in puzzlement.

“I am sorry. Was that not the correct English? I am trying to learn your _Spracheigentümlichkeit_ , ah what is the word… idioms.”

“No, no, that was correct. I didn’t mean to snap. Only… only… I don’t like to admit it, but I think I may have seen a ghost last night.”

“ _Ein_ _Geist_? If there were such a thing, Baskerton Hall would be a good place to meet one, yes? What did it look like?” I told him what I had seen in the corridor.

“A classic ghost-in-a-sheet you say? Such a cliché. At least it was not carrying its head beneath its arm. But think, what would this ghostly figure have seen, if it turned and looked back down the corridor at you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were wearing your nightshirt were you not? In the dim light, it too would have seen a ghostly figure shrouded in white.” And with that he went into his room.

Despite my good feather bed, it took me a long while to get to sleep. The events of the day insisted on going round and round in my mind; the maid in the family way, although the father was not her boyfriend; the strange gang of protestors; the suspiciously polite engineer Mr Rumoldew; my poor efforts at the Hog’s Mouth that had probably made things worse; the appearance of the Hedgehog of the Baskertons. What did it all mean? Who could we trust? What were Captain Barber and Dr Holbrook doing here that was so mysterious? Finally, I must admit, what worried me most in my futile efforts at slumber was whether the servants would ever get my best shoes clean again.

At last I fell asleep, but my slumbering teemed with such horrible dreams that I‘d very much better been waking. I was back at my old family house in London, where I grew up. I was going to bed, so snuffed out the candle in the living room and walked down the dark corridor towards the stairs. The corridor was much longer and darker than it is in reality, although this never occurred to me in my dream. Then in the blackness behind me, I heard two voices talking. They were not voices that I recognised; they were not even threatening. It sounded like two men having a rational conversation about nothing in particular, although I could not discern the words. But for some reason I was seized with an irrational panic. I knew I did not want to meet the owners of those two voices. I walked rapidly down the corridor, wondering whether I ought to run. But my legs were suddenly seized by paralysis. The faster I tried to move, the heavier my legs became. The strength drained from my limbs and behind me the two terrible mundane voices became louder and closer. The darkness was closing around me…

And then I woke up – only I didn’t. I was conscious and I knew I was lying in the good feather bed at Baskerton Hall where I had fallen asleep, yet I was completely unable to move. I could not even open my eyes. I tried to exert my will to move my arm. It moved – I thought it moved – then realised it had not. I felt as though there was someone – some _thing_ – else in the room, taking control of my body and my mind. Although I could see nothing and hear nothing, I had the distinct sensation of a face held very close to mine as I lay paralysed, regarding me with malice. I struggled inside the prison of my head and then, like a drowning man, sank back into sleep, overwhelmed by the otherworldly presence.

And then I woke up, properly. It was still dark. I was lying in the good feather bed in Baskerton Hall, trembling in affright. I had only been dreaming – a bad dream perhaps, but only a dream. The corridor and the voices were only an annoying nightmare, frightening at the time, but easily dismissed by the rational waking mind. The paralysis and the presence though, that was something different. Could there really be some malign entity stalking the corridors of the Hall? I tried to think of some logical explanation involving malforms and magical summoning, but nothing I had ever heard of could explain it. Then again, who knows what havoc a Hedge Wizard may cause as they blunder through a half-understood incantation?

My heart leapt at a sound outside in the corridor. My nerves had still not recovered from my nightmare. I pulled myself together. That was no malform or evil spirit. That was the sound of someone walking stealthily down the corridor outside my room. I had a sudden horrible thought that it might be O’Malley, sneaking through the house, looking for anything, especially drink, that he might be able to purloin. I got out of bed, spent a few moments groping around in an unfamiliar room for my glasses and the box of Congreves, and finally managed to get my candle lit. Then, I carefully opened the door and looked out. The corridor was empty. I went in the direction I thought that the footsteps had gone, trying to remember who was sleeping behind the many doors.

The light from my candle was not enough to illuminate the entire corridor. Mr Conlon had obviously instructed the maids not to waste the good candles on us. Then, from the wall of darkness at the end of the corridor, outside my comforting circle of light, I heard someone breathing loudly. Not a healthy sound, but the sound of someone who was suffering from some congestion of the lungs or under the burden of some strong emotion.

“Who’s there?” I called, but not too loudly. There was no response, but slowly the sound of breathing became louder. It was coming towards me. I stood my ground, braced for the mysterious person to step into the light. I told myself that I would be safe so long as my candle remained lit. If I could see what was coming, I could face it. Then a sudden gust of wind from nowhere rushed down the corridor and in an instant my candle was snuffed out. And with the wind came that smell of freshly turned earth and decay, like the smell of an open grave. I stood alone in total darkness, willing myself not to panic, but already my overactive imagination had filled the corridor with monsters. Monsters with claws sharp enough to rip a man open.  

The sound of the breathing came closer. As it grew louder it seemed to me that there was some inhuman element to it. I strained my eyes in the darkness, trying to see the giant creature that must surely be making this mighty susurrus. The useless unlit candle shook in my hand. The breathing was right in front of me… and then it passed through me. For one mighty breath it seemed as though it were standing next to me, and in the next breath I heard it behind me. I had felt nothing. It was as though the monstrous voice had no body, merely an invisible ethereal presence that walked unseen.

Could it have been some type of invisible malform? Even a malform should have some physical form. I turned and put out my hand, groping in the darkness, towards the receding sound of breathing. My hand touched a face. I felt the mouth. The teeth bared in a wicked grin. I exclaimed in fright and dropped my candle stick with a clatter. A Congreve flared in the darkness, illuminating Wolfe’s worried expression.

“Ah, I am sorry Ben, I did not mean to frighten you. I thought I heard noises in the corridor and came to investigate.” He lit the candle he was carrying and suddenly we were once again standing in a comforting circle of light.

“In the dark?”

“I did not want to give myself away.”

“Did you hear it?! That breathing…!”

“Why yes, it sounded to me like…” He held out his candle and looked down at the ground behind him. “Ah yes,  I thought I recognised the sound.”

Walking down the corridor was a small creature covered in spines, perhaps a foot long and six inches tall, from which the loud breathing sounds originated. When exposed in the light, it looked round and whiffled at us.

“A hedgehog!” I exclaimed. “It must have walked right past me in the darkness!”

“But yes. I thought I recognised the sound from my time sleeping rough. They make a quite enormous amount of noise for one so small. Here, hold my candle.” I took his candle and he bent down to pick the creature up. I expected it to turn and bite him, but for a wild creature it seemed surprisingly docile.

“ _Morgen_ , little _Igel_. See Ben, it is quite harmless. I wonder how it could have got here. We must set it free outside, yes?” He held it out towards me, as if expecting me to admire it. I flinched away.

“Ah, you do not like animals, I forgot.”

“I’m fine. I am a trained professional. I can handle thi…AGH!” A flea leaped from the verminous animal onto the sleeve of my night shirt. “GET IT OFF!”

“Tch, hold still.” Wolfe put the hedgehog down, licked his thumbnail and touched it to the flea struggling in the wool of my sleeve, trapping the vile vermin in the glob of spittle. Then, with a technique that was far too practised, he crushed the flea between his thumbnails. There was a nauseating audible crack as he broke its hard shell. “There, see? The problem is solved, is it not? Now, I will take our friend here outside where he belongs. No doubt you wish to return to your room and check for any more little passengers, yes?” He picked up my discarded candlestick and relit it from the one I carried, then collected the hedgehog, which was snuffling by one of the closed bedroom doors. I pressed myself against the wall of the corridor as he carried it past to avoid any further contamination, then rushed to my room, took off my infested nightshirt as quickly as possible and stuffed it into the fireplace, to be consumed by the purifying fire. I turned to get the clean one from the wardrobe and screamed with horror.

The ghostly figure in a white shroud stood beside my bed, dimly illuminated by the blaze from my night shirt and the candle. With shaking hands, I found my glasses, which I’d taken off when I removed my nightshirt, and held up my candle to see what confronted me. The blurred figure in white resolved itself into Captain Nicola Barber, wearing a nightdress and with her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. I was suddenly aware of my state of undress and grabbed a pillow from the bed to cover my embarrassment.

“What…” I began, and then my bedroom door opened. Wolfe, O’Malley and Constable Turner all put their heads around the door and looked at the two of us with various degrees of embarrassment and amusement.  

 “Oh, I am sorry,” said Wolfe, “I did not mean to disturb you. We heard the screaming and wondered if you were all right. I see you are both fine.” I heard O’Malley snigger.

“No! Wait! I mean…” but they had already closed the door and gone.

“Would you mind making yourself decent?” snapped Nicola, as though this were all my fault. She turned her back, while I struggled into my spare nightshirt.

“What are you doing in my room?” I demanded, as soon as I was respectable. She fixed me with her fiercest stare.

“Looking for evidence. Why did you really come to Baskerton Hall? “

“I’ve told you, we’re… Wait! What do you mean, looking for evidence? And you tried to sneak in here when I was asleep last night didn’t you? How dare you!”

“This is a potential murder enquiry, and you are involved.”

“But you don’t have the right to come in here and look through my confidential paperwork, my possessions, without my permission, without a warrant!”

“The _Magna Carta_ gives me the right!”

“The _Magna Carta_?! What has that got to do with it?!”

“Clause 40. ‘We will not delay or deny Justice’!”

“Nonsense. The _Magna Carta_ upholds the rights of the people.”

“Ha! Whenever I hear of people demanding their rights, I know they are only trying to shirk their responsibilities!”

“And when people demand justice, all too often they seek only revenge!”

“What have you got to hide Thackerey?!”

“Nothing! We are here to investigate reports of this rogue summons or whatever it may be. Now I must insist you leave my room at once!”

Nicola scowled at me and paused for dramatic effect before she turned and left the room, to show that she was leaving because she chose, not because I was telling her to do so. Once the door had closed behind her I climbed back into bed and snuffed out my candle, but it was a long time before I got to sleep. I couldn’t get the image of Nicola Barber in her nightdress with her hair hanging loose out of my mind.


	11. The Benefits of Modern Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Thackerey and Company help the police with their enquiries_

“Thackerey, I need you,” announced Captain Barber.

“Ah, at last you listen to your heart!” grinned Wolfe. She glowered at him and for a moment I thought she was going to break his nose. O’Malley, Wolfe and I were sitting around the breakfast table the next morning, trying to decide what exactly the jam we were trying to spread on our cold toast was supposed to be, when Captain Barber had marched into the room.

“I mean I need his ‘expertise’, she said in a voice that would have made the tea go cold, were it not for the fact that it already was. “Dr Holbrook has… decided to return to Widdershins, and I don’t have a wizard to assist with my investigation. I can’t hang around waiting for a replacement and I hate to think what the local talent is like, so Thackerey, you’ll have to do.”

“But what about our investigation?” I protested.

“Of course,” replied Wolfe, “you will find our standard rates extremely reasonable, and we always give a generous discount for the forces of law and order.”

“But…”

“Just send the invoice to Widdershins Constabulary once we’re done. Thackerey, be at the front door in fifteen minutes.” I tried once more to protest, but Captain Barber had already left the room. It seemed I did not get a say in the matter. Wolfe turned to me with a grin.

“Ah, I think you are in luck, friend Ben!” So far, he and O’Malley had refrained from making any comments about the unfortunate misunderstanding of the previous night, but I could tell that if the subject wasn’t broached soon, they were going to burst.

“I hope you won’t get the wrong idea about Captain Barber being in my room,” I said.

They both mumbled something incomprehensible and sniggered.

“Anyway, how was it that both of you and Constable Turner happened to be in the corridor at the same time and happened to look round my door at such an inopportune moment?”

“I met Mal in the corridor,” began Wolfe.

“Yeah, I’d come t’ see wha’ all the noise were. Some o’ us were tryin’ to sleep y’know.”

“And then Constable Turner was sent out to see what was going on. Dr Holbrook was becoming very agitated.”

“An’ then we heard ye screamin’ so we come an’ see if ye were alright.” O’Malley actually looked a little abashed. “Sorry ‘bout that. Din mean to play gooseberry. ‘ope we din’ spoil nuthin’.”

“Spoil anything? Why do you persist in this fiction that Captain Barber and I are intimate?”

“She were in yer bedroom in ‘er nightie and ye were stark naked.”

“I was not stark naked! I had my bedsocks on!” I fail to see what they found so funny, but at least it was an opportunity to change the subject.

“And what of your plans for today,” I asked, once the two of them had finished laughing.

“If you are helping the fair Nicola today, then perhaps I will conduct my own enquiries elsewhere,” replied Wolfe.

“Will you investigate the house and grounds as we discussed?”

“Ah, perhaps not. We should do that together, when we have your wizardly knowledge to guide us. I will go and see the protesters again. If I can gain their trust, perhaps they will be more open with me. And I can sketch this _unglaubliche_ plant.” O’Malley smirked and looked at the space above his head.  

“Yeah, right. Ye want t’ go an’ see the plant.”

“Will you need the Brougham?” I asked.

“If I am allowed, I will take Mabel again. A fine horse needs exercise and I am eager for a ride.”

O’Malley sniggered.  

“Where did you learn to ride so well?”

“Ah, I would not say I am a good rider. I almost did not learn at all. My cousin Hermann from the Dragoons visited my Uncle when I was twelve years old, and he taught me. I was very lucky. Had circumstances been slightly different I would have missed the opportunity.”

“What about you, O’Malley? Will you come with us? Your ‘talent’ might be useful.”

“A day wi’ Barber? An’ you? Dun’ sound like fun.”

“I’ll buy you some tobacco if you help.”

“Benson’s?”

“Oh, very well.”

“Right then, I’ll… ow!” He rubbed his ankle and turned to Wolfe reproachfully. “Hey, ye kicked me.”

“I am sorry Mal, how clumsy of me. I was thinking perhaps you might come with me to get to know the protesters.” He made a meaningful gesture above our heads. “I think they like you.”

“Nah, ‘e said he were goin’ to buy me…”

“So friend Ben and the fair Nicola can pursue their investigations.”

“But…”

“ _On their own_.”

“Oh! Oh, right yeah, got it. Reckon me and ye’ll talk wi’ them weirdos. I was tellin’ about livin’ outdoors. They reckon I were authentic, wha’ ever tha’ is.”

“Fine! Then we are all agreed.”

“Ye owe me a pouch o’ Benson’s, mate.” O’Malley muttered to Wolfe.

“Very well O’Malley, you will go with Wolfe and gain the trust of the protestors. How will you get there? Can you ride pillion?”

“Nah, I can ride. A bit. Ma used to let me have a go on the ol’ nag sumtimes.”

“Now, I had best get ready for the day. It will not do to keep Nic-  er… Captain Barber waiting.”

Wolfe gave me a comradely pat on the back. “I hope you both have a most enjoyable day!”

\-------------------------*

I went upstairs to get ready for the day ahead. Despite my fears, the servants had performed miracles on my best shoes, and my outdoor jacket had been immaculately brushed. Nicola and the carriage were already waiting at the front door of the Hall by the time I arrived. Wolfe and O’Malley rode up and stopped to talk to Maisie the coachwoman. O’Malley had procured a horse somewhat smaller and tamer than Wolfe’s horse Mabel.

“Ah, you are driving the main coach today,” Wolfe called to Maisie. “I thought you usually took the Brougham.” Maisie, who had broken out into a broad smile when Wolfe had appeared, suddenly looked annoyed.

“I were supposed t’ take that wizard fella to catch the mail, but ‘e looked at me an’ said ‘e weren’t goin’ to get in no coach wi’ a woman driver. ‘e wun’ have n’one but George the head coachman.”

“But at least you get to drive the big coach instead!” exclaimed Wolfe, as usual determined to always look on the bright side. He was rewarded with a smile. “And it is good to see that Dr Holbrook is starting to get back to his normal self after his nasty shock last night.”

Captain Barber leaned out of the coach in irritation.

“Get a move on Thackerey!” she snapped, “we haven’t got all day.”

“Are we not waiting for Constable Turner?” I asked as I climbed aboard.

“Turner won’t be coming. He’s taking Holbrook back to Ruardean in the Brougham.” I was horrified.

“You mean we’ll be on our own? Together? But what about a chaperone?”

“I don’t need a d*mn*d chaperone!”

That was a shame because I did.

Captain Barber gave a sharp command to Maisie, and we set off at a brisk trot. Wolfe and O’Malley followed us down the driveway. To my surprise, O’Malley turned out to be, if not an expert horseman, at least a competent rider. At least, he did not fall off.

 It was only when we reached the main road that it occurred to me that I had no idea where we were going or what we were doing. When Captain Barber showed no signs of explanation, or even making polite conversation, I finally decided this had gone on long enough.

“I think perhaps you need to brief me.”

“This is a confidential police investigation.”

“But I am, despite appearances, here to help. If I am to be of any use whatsoever you need to tell me at least some details of what you are investigating and what you want me to do. Or if you prefer, I can sit in the carriage all day and read an improving book, while Widdershins Constabulary pay me by the hour.”                   .”

“Are you working for Augustus?”

“No, technically we are employed by the estate of the late Sir Henry Baskerton to investigate a potential rogue summoning or malform. Dr Augustus merely made the arrangements, as one of the executors of the estate.”

“Has it ever occurred to you to question anything that he has told you?”

“You mean the ancient curse, that we have been brought here to lay to rest?”

“Ancient curse!” Captain Barber snorted in derision.

“You’re here to investigate Dr Augustus then?”

“At the request of Ms Allingham.”

“The solicitor?”

“Oh good, you _have_ been paying attention. What your friend the doctor hasn’t told you is that he has invested considerable sums in this new high-speed tram way, investments that he stands to lose if the project is cancelled. Obviously, if Sir Henry, the man holding up the development, was to suddenly drop dead, it would be of substantial monetary benefit to him.”

“You think he might be responsible for his death? But how?”

“That’s one of the things we’ve been trying to find out. Holbrook failed to find any evidence of residual summoning in the garden.”

“But just a moment! Sir Henry was about to withdraw his objections!”

“So far the only person who has told us this is Ms Allingham and she only heard it from Augustus. He gave her a letter from Sir Henry the day after his death, instructing her to begin proceedings to force the protestors to leave, and to send a formal letter to the high speed tramway company informing them that he was withdrawing his objections.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that Augustus murdered Sir Henry and invented the story of Sir Henry’s change of mind. He forged the document he gave to Allingham. He was expecting the new heir to not care about the estate, so there would be no more objections to the high-speed tramway being built, at least not from anyone important enough to have a say in the matter. Ms Allingham is suspicious. That’s why she called us in.”

“So why did Dr Augustus travel to Widdershins to alert everyone to the Hedgehog?”

“Probably to divert attention away from him. Possibly to scare away any heir with inconvenient radical views.  The only evidence we have for any magical interference is from him. He even did the autopsy that showed Sir Henry died of natural causes. He could have bumped off Sir Henry in any number of ways, and then invented this cock-and-bull story.”

“Can you show this letter to Ms Allingham is a forgery.”

“That’s as far as our investigation got. Holbrook set up a make-shift facility at Allingham’s office in Coleford. That’s where we’re going. He was trying some sort of magic to see if it is genuine or not.”

“That’s very difficult magic.”

“I am aware of that thank you very much. Holbrook is – was – still working on it. He said he was making progress, but I’m not so sure.”

“And you want me to continue with his work.”

“That’s what you are here for, but I expect Holbrook’s incantations will be completely beyond you.”

“Now look here! I may only have a third from Oxford but that doesn’t mean…” I sighed. Who was I trying to convince here? “…no, even if I’m able to understand what Holbrook was doing, I probably won’t have the magical strength, the _Mentis Viribus_ to cast the actual spells.”

“Thought not. You may not be much but, God help me, you’re all I’ve got.”

“But there is one other thing you need to explain. What were you doing in my room last night?”

“That’s…”

“Police business? Yes, I’m sure it was, but if we’re both working on the side of Justice, we need to be able trust each other, and trust works both ways.”

She gave me a long glare before she answered.

“Very well. We’re already suspicious of Dr Augustus. And then what does he do? He hires you three dubious characters to come down here and ‘investigate’. Perhaps he needed a wizard to give his tale of the hedgehog some substance.”

“But he only came to us after the police and the Royal Society and the University had laughed in his face.”

“I expect he would have preferred an official organisation to spread the rumours, but he had to make do with you. And perhaps then he realised that, as a wizard for hire, you might be prepared to do a little unofficial summoning to help things along. I wanted to check your paperwork and see exactly what agreement there was between you and Augustus.”

“Preposterous. As if I would be involved in any activities like that!”

“I should have known you weren’t capable of anything devious. You don’t have the spirit.”

“Thank you so much! Anyway, I leave Wolfe to deal with all the boring contractual side of the business. Perhaps you should try sneaking into _his_ bedroom tonight!”

“No, it’s obvious you lot are mere decoys to deflect suspicion away from Augustus with this ridiculous story about a giant hedgehog.”

“Ridiculous? Then what scared Holbrook out of his wits? And tore claw marks in his jacket?”

“The obvious answer is still the men working for Dr Augustus. It may not have been you. Can you be sure Wolfe or O’Malley haven’t taken a back-hander? Especially O’Malley.”

I’m sure I would have made a vigorous defence of my companions’ honour, had we not arrived at Ms Allingham’s office in Coleford.

\-------------*

The premises were set in a respectable terrace on the town square. A smart clerk showed us to Ms Allingham’s office. The solicitor was a woman in her late thirties, with a flawless olive skin and a delicate elf-like face. Even I could tell that her dress must have been expensive, though it was simple and completely without ostentation. Her hair was not bound up in a tight business-like bun, the modern fashion among serious-minded young professional women, but carefully and attractively styled to give an air of competence without frivolity. She sat with perfect poise, as though always aware of her posture and the messages it was sending to those around her. Her gaze was calculating and unwavering, giving the impression that she was minutely analysing everything we said and did. She did not look pleased to see us.

“Captain Barber. Could I ask how much longer this will take? It is most inconvenient. My conference room has already been out of commission for almost a week, and this office is far too small for meeting clients.”

Captain Barber scowled. “If you’d let us take the documents away so we could examine them in proper conditions, then we would not have the inconvenience of coming all the way to Coleford and making do with your conference room.”

“I have already explained, it is quite out of the question that confidential legal documents be removed from the building.”

I realised that this discussion had been going on for quite some time, without coming to any sensible compromise. Ms Allingham turned her analytical gaze on me.

“And where is our good friend Dr Holbrook this morning? Are we to be denied his genial company?”

“Dr Holbrook is indisposed, so I’ve been forced to find a substitute.”

I gave my best formal bow.

“Mr Benjamin Thackerey at your service ma’am. Licensed wizard and proprietor of Thackerey’s Malform Removals.” She looked at me with a sceptical raised eyebrow.

“Are you _sure_ you’re a wizard?” I flushed with anger.

“Ms Allingham! I may only be an alumnus of Oxford, but I can assure you that my licence…”

“I beg your pardon. I meant no offence. I was only asking because you were polite. I do not believe I have ever met a polite wizard before. There is nothing wrong with a degree from Oxford. I, too, graduated there.” She held out her hand.

“Parat Allingham. Senior partner of Allingham and Campion.”

“Ah well, of course.” I gritted my teeth and shook her hand for the minimum amount of time politeness allowed. Thankfully, I had remembered to wear my gloves. She rewarded me with a half-smile.

“You’ll need to know the latest state of play. Tea?”

“If you please.”

From Captain Barber’s expression, she would have preferred me to get straight on with the summoning. I was in no hurry. First, a cup of tea (decent tea, as opposed to the dishwater we were served at Baskerton Hall) was most welcome after the carriage ride, second it was a chance to obtain more information about the case, and third it meant putting off the admission that this visit had been a complete waste of time because I would not be capable of continuing Holbrook’s work.

A maid brought in the tea almost immediately. I suppose that she had already begun preparing it as soon as visitors arrived. Once we all had our teacups, Ms Allingham gave Captain Barber a significant look.

“I have drafted the formal notice of eviction to the protestors at the camp and a notification for Mr Rumoldew of the highspeed tramway company that work can resume. It would be to everyone’s benefit if you allow me to send them.”

“No! You can’t act until we know whether that letter was genuine or not.”

“There are many in the Forest who are anxious that the new development goes ahead.”

“The landed gentry who will make large profits from the new mines you mean.”

“Not at all. All the Foresters are very enthusiastic about the new mining opportunities. There’s been mining in some shape or form here since Roman times you know, and unlike most areas of Britain, the miners have free rights, granted to them in perpetuity back in the middle ages when they helped Good King Edward the Peacemaker undermine William the Traitor’s castle walls during a siege. Everyone will benefit directly from the expansion of the economy that your inefficiency is delaying.”

“If you are so keen to go ahead without worrying about the inconvenient details around Sir Henry’s death, perhaps you should have thought twice before you called us in.”

“It was my duty to make the police aware of any suspicions I had. I assumed the local force would make a few discrete enquiries and that would be that.”

“A nice little inside job you mean?” Ms Allingham stiffened at the implication. “Except our friend Dr Augustus had to travel up to Widdershins and make a fuss, and suddenly Gloucester Police are asking for backup from specialists in magical crime. And here we are. How inconvenient.”

“Very inconvenient, if only because the investigation is cluttering up my office, instead of making any progress.”

Captain Barber and Ms Allingham reminded me of a terrier confronting a large cat that was determined not to be intimidated no matter how loudly the little dog barked.

“Ah… er… have you had any success in tracing Reginald Baskerton, the missing heir?” I asked, before this could develop into a scene. “I’m surprised he has been so hard to find. With such a large amount of money at stake, you would expect him to come forward.”

“Yes, it is most peculiar,” said Ms Allingham, turning her interrogating gaze on me, no doubt inwardly reviewing my possible motives for asking the question. “We have tracked him to London, but there the paper trail suddenly stops, almost two years ago. All his money was withdrawn from his bank accounts which were then closed. Any official trace of him has vanished. He appears on the census of 1831, but he has moved out of the registered place of residence. He also left his place of employment. He has left no forwarding address.”

“Have you tried advertising?”

“We have, and as you may imagine, our time has been wasted by a string of chancers who are clearly not our missing heir. But of the real Reginald Baskerton – not a scent.”

“Could he be dead?”

“Perhaps. But we have found no trace of any death certificate. We suspect he has travelled abroad –the most likely explanation is that he has fled the country for some reason – but we have not found his name on any passenger manifest, nor has he ever applied for a passport, although of course there are many ships he could have paid to take him as a passenger without the need for any official documentation or awkward questions.”

“I wonder if you could perhaps try…”

“If you’ve finished your tea, perhaps we can get on with it?” interrupted Captain Barber, who was becoming increasingly impatient at being told things she already knew. I had not finished my tea, but it was clear it was time for me to start earning my fee.

Captain Barber led me to the back room of the premises, much larger than Ms Allingham’s office, dominated by a long table surrounded by chairs – the conference room. The table was covered with parchments and reference books. A cluster of alembics and bottles, presumably used for generating offerings of some description, stood at one end. The carpet had been rolled back and magical circles chalked on the bare floorboards. There were signs of frequent erasures and re-inscribing, a clear sign that things had not been going well. Several large boxes, presumably the packaging in which all this material had arrived, were piled untidily in one corner of the room.

“Do you understand any of this?” asked Captain Barber, in a tone of voice that suggested she wasn’t going to waste her time by waiting for the inevitable answer.

“It all looks very complicated,” I said. “And the room is such a mess. Did Dr Holbrook have no concept of an orderly filing system? This could take some time.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to give up. Be sure to have any additional excuses ready for why you aren’t up to the job by the time I come back. I’ve things to discuss with Allingham.” She left the room without waiting for an answer and a few minutes later her raised voice from the front of the building told me that the discussion had begun.

I settled down to try to understand what Holbrook had been trying to do.

\---------*

“Well Thackerey?” Captain Barber’s mood had not improved when she came back into the conference room an hour later.

“I am struggling to follow his logic.”

“A complete waste of time then.”

“These are very complicated concepts and the spells would require a stronger wizard than me to make them work. I can see that he tried investigating the emotions and imprints associated with the document. There are a range of spirits who can help with this, including discrimination, concern, sensitivity…”

“Get on with it Thackerey! I don’t want a lecture.” I thought that rather unfair. Captain Barber had spent most of the morning complaining about my lack of ability and now I was demonstrating that I was not completely ignorant she did not want to hear. Perhaps she didn’t need to know the details. Perhaps she found it difficult to accept facts that did not conform to her view of the world.

“Anyway, it’s well known that an object can be imbued by the emotions of the people handling it. Usually, these effects are weak and transitory, so they are difficult to detect unless the emotion is very strong. The problem here was more difficult because the overwhelming emotions were concern, suspicion, and anger that he attributed to recent handling by Ms Allingham and er… you. As a skilled wizard he was able to discern traces of other emotions – guilt, resolve, relief, very faint, but definitely present. I doubt I would have been able to detect them.”

“Guilt? That sounds like Augustus. We’ve got him!”

“Not necessarily. Perhaps it is the guilt of Sir Henry opposing the tramway for his own selfish ends.”

“Hmph. Is it possible to determine which emotion belonged to which person? Or when they imbued the letter? We need to prove it was written after Sir Henry died.”

“Yes, when a person handles an item, their spirit also leaves an impression, the strength depending on the intensity of their _Elan Vital_. Apparently, you and Ms Allingham have, unsurprisingly, left the largest imprint. There’s also a definite trace from Dr Augustus and a fourth that Holbrook identified as Sir Henry by comparison to the imprint on his personal possessions.”

“Sir Henry’s imprint means nothing. It was on his headed notepaper. What was the problem?”

“You see, as the imbued emotions fade rapidly with time, you can estimate their age from their strength. But first you need to know how strong they were to begin with. And to do that you need to know which of the people who handled the document left that particular emotion and to do that you need to know er… when the person imbued the document. I cannot see how this knot could be unravelled, and as far as I can surmise, neither could Holbrook. He had run into a dead end.”

“How convenient for you.”

 “Hmph. I may not have his _Mentis Viribus,_ but I have the wit to follow his reasoning, and I do not believe that his method would ever work. No wonder he was in such a bad mood.”

“He’s always like that.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t use Abernetty’s Permeation Test. The document is written on legal parchment; thick and relatively impervious.”

“The what now?”

“Abernetty’s Permeation Test. You summon dogmatism and it determines how far the ink has penetrated into the parchment. You offer ‘proving someone wrong’ in return. It should be able to determine if the parchment was written before or after Sir Henry’s death.”

“How does dogmatism help?”

“The trick is to first tell the spirit that this is a forgery, by using the document as the conduit, and then tell it that it may not be a forgery after all. It is necessary to argue the point, which will motivate the spirit to prove whether it is a forgery one way or the other by determining the age of the writing. It does this by looking at the distance the ink has permeated into the paper. Apparently, ink keeps moving for up to two months after the document is written. That’s difficult to measure, but the spirit of dogmatism will make the effort because that is what it is driven to do. It must always be sure you see. Once it has proven the age of the document one way or the other it will take enormous pleasure in giving me a definitive answer at great length, and that will be the offering.”

“Seriously? I have never heard such a ridiculous rigmarole in all my life!”

“Compared to all this?” I indicated the disorganised mess of Holbrook’s failed incantations. “Abernetty’s test represents the kind of lateral thinking that’s at the heart of the new Ingineuring Revolution. The key is that the amount of _Mentis Viribus_ required by the wizard is small…”

“So even you can do it then.”

“…hmph, yes even I can do it, well, probably, because all the effort is expended by the summoned spirit. Take those new voice throwing circles you’ve installed at the police station for instance. They work by…”

“This will stand up in court will it?”

“I don’t see why not. It’s quite a simple procedure.”

“Then why was Holbrook been wasting half the departmental budget on over a dozen different summons?”

“Abernetty’s test is very new. I may not be such a powerful wizard as Dr Holbrook, but that’s all the more reason for me to keep up with the literature. And there’s another reason. The procedure was invented at the new university that’s started in Durham. The alumni of Widdershins may be contemptuous of my degree from Oxford, but that is nothing compared to what they feel about this new upstart institution. A wizard like Dr Holbrook would sooner spend six months on intricate incantations than spend six hours learning a new technique developed at a new university.”

“Can you do this permeation test?”

“Yes of course. I have the original document, the same type of ink and pen nibs that were used to write it, and a surface on which to draw a magic circle. It should take no longer than half an hour.”

“Get on with it then!” I got on with it.

\-----------*

In the end, it took rather longer than I anticipated. First I had to remind myself of the correct circle to summon dogmatism – fortunately it was in one of Dr Holbrook’s reference books – and I wrote out the procedure to make sure I had the _Lingua Aliquantum_ correct – I did not want to have to tell Captain Barber that I had failed. The summoning itself went perfectly, but then I got into an extended discussion with the spirit of dogmatism regarding the details of how it should measure the depth of ink permeation, specifically how exactly the boundary of the ink should be defined. Is it the point where the ink first appears, the point at which the ink is fully black, or the mid-point between them? Which measurement method it used was not strictly important for the result so long as it was done consistently, but not only did it engage the spirit and make sure it did what was necessary, it was also the most interesting conversation that I had had for several weeks.  

After two hours, I finally had my answer. The spirit, happy with its offering, departed back to the _Spiritus Mundi_ , and I said the words to dissolve the walls of the summoning circle. Despite the extended spell duration, I felt less drained that I would for the simple unwilling desummoning of a malform. This is one of the great benefits of modern magic, where the spirit is persuaded to cooperate because it wants to, not through the use of threats and bribes that require the expenditure of so much _Mentis Viribus_.

Captain Barber only came back into the room once the circle’s glow had dissipated. She had made some excuse about needing to report progress to the local police station, but I suspect, like many non-wizards, she was not comfortable with practical magic. Given her background and profession, I found that surprising, but perhaps it was only the results of _my_ spell casting that she wanted to avoid.

“What’s the verdict?” she demanded, before I had even had a chance to get to my feet and dust off my trousers.

“Without a doubt, the permeation test shows that this document was written and signed at least a week before Sir Henry died. And it was definitely signed at the same time as the body of the text was written. It can’t be used as evidence of a forgery.”

This was clearly not the result that Captain Barber had been hoping for.

“So much for that! Hrmph. Get all this stuff cleared away and we’ll let Allingham have her conference room back.” Apparently ‘thank you’ is not a phrase familiar to the members of the Widdershins Constabulary.

\-------------*

It was early afternoon before we had put everything away and retreated from the offices of Allingham and Campion. It should have taken longer, but Captain Barber had no patience with my insistence on packing away each item methodically and logically, with a proper inventory of the contents of each box. In the end everything was crammed in with the most hopeless muddle and it would be up Dr Holbrook to sort it all out once it arrived back at Widdershins. There was no reason why I should have been worried about creating problems for him, but the whole chaotic arrangement upset my digestion. Even worse, Captain Barber refused to let me sweep the floor, erase the chalked circles or polish the conference table, which I thought was the least courtesy we should have offered after all the trouble she had caused the solicitors.

Ms Allingham saw us off the premises. She was barely civil to Captain Barber, but she made a point of thanking me for bringing everything to a swift and satisfactory conclusion and commented that perhaps us Oxford graduates had something to contribute after all. Her praise and her smile lifted my spirits more than I could account for.

Unfortunately, none of this lifted Captain Barber’s spirits. She sat opposite me in the carriage on the way back to Baskerton Hall in a brown study that bordered on sulking. It was a while before she broke the silence.

“This still doesn’t prove anything. Even if the letter were written before Sir Henry’s death, it could still be a forgery by Augustus.”

“Perhaps. The handwriting on the document looked identical to that on the genuine documents to me. Have you brought in a hand-writing expert?”

“No. They’re useless, especially for such a short letter. Even if we find one that gives us the right answer, you can be sure the defence council will find another ready to swear the complete opposite.”

“You know, there is someone else who knew of Sir Henry’s change of mind. Mr Bredon, the leader of the protestors. When we visited his camp he told us Sir Henry had already been up in person to inform the protestors of his decision.”

Captain Barber looked at me sharply.

“Are you telling me these… people have known about Sir Henry’s change of heart all this time?! Why didn’t you tell me that before?!”

“I am sure Wolfe mentioned it.” I looked at the expression on Captain Barbers face. “Ah, perhaps he forgot. If you talk to Mr Bredon or Ms Parrot yourself, I’m sure they’ll confirm it. In fact, the mere mention of Sir Henry’s name is likely to produce a much longer statement than you may wish for. But have you not been to talk to the protestors yourself?”

“They were abusive and disrespectful! Talking to them was completely impossible! Had I more constables at my disposal I would have gone back and arrested the lot of them!”

“They did strike me as a trifle...”

Captain Barber leaned out of the window and shouted to our coachwoman not to go back to Baskerton Hall but to take us to the protestors’ camp.

\------------------------*

We left Maisie and the coach at the bottom of the hill and walked up to the camp. I wondered if Wolfe and O’Malley might have already gone back to the Hall, but I saw their horses tied up by the wood. The appearance of a police officer created a commotion amongst the protestors, who thought that the forces of law and order had arrived to evict them. Led by Mr Bredon, they converged on Captain Barber, all talking loudly at once. Several of them started the toddler chant. I saw O’Malley and Wolfe sitting by the campfire with Ms Parrot, so took the opportunity to escape the bedlam and walked over to them. Wolfe stood up to meet me.

“Ah friend Ben. I trust you have had a productive day. We are having a most fascinating discussion with Ms Parrot.”

“Actually, my day has been surprisingly successful,” I replied, raising my voice to be heard above the rising commotion behind me. “Captain Barber is here to clarify a few facts with Mr Bredon.”

“Ah, it seems the fair Captain is still a little cross.”

“ _She_ has had a very difficult day...” Wolfe looked at me with an enquiring expression, “…which was not at all my fault! Although I think it will be beneficial for everyone if she spends a while shouting at someone who is not me.”

“Ah, but perhaps I should intervene before she starts hitting people with her nightstick. If you will excuse me.” He walked across to the crowd surrounding Captain Barber. I went to see O’Malley. He had a strange rictus grin. Too late I realised he was being enthusiastically lectured by Ms Parrot. Before I could escape, she had pinned me down with her diatribe and there was nothing for it but to listen. I think she was accusing us of vegetal otherness. Or she may have been propounding vegetal otherness. It never became clear to me what the concept was, or whether she thought it good or bad, but it had something to do with plants. Probably.

“To embody the post-anthropocentric paradigm towards plants the human individual must transiently commit to a level of vegetalisation!” she told us with great emphasis and sincerity.

“What’s she talkin’ about?” whispered O’Malley.

“I have no idea,” I replied out of the corner of his mouth. “Just keep smiling and nodding.”

“Got it!” We kept smiling and nodding. Across the clearing, Wolfe was working his magic. The shouting and chanting subsided and became no more than a very loud discussion.

\--------*

Finally, Wolfe came over to rescue us. Ms Parrot immediately stopped haranguing us and focussed all her attention on him. While he explained to her what all the fuss had been about, and that the police officer was not there to forcibly evict or arrest them, O’Malley and I beat a hasty retreat to the horses.

“Good day?” O’Malley asked with a leer and a glance in Captain Barber’s direction.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I was able to demonstrate that a vital document was probably not a forgery by summoning the spirit of dogmatism.”

“Dogmatism? Y’mean like tha’ Rex fella ‘as got?”

“No, never mind.”

I stood at a safe distance while O’Malley put the saddle back on his horse. Still flushed from the heat of battle, Captain Barber joined us, closely followed by Wolfe, who had been saying a protracted goodbye to Ms Parrot.

“What progress with your investigation?” he asked. “Or is it still confidential?” Captain Barber shrugged when I looked at her.

“Might as well fill them in.” I gave them a brief summary of our day in Coleford.

“Did Mr Bredon confirm that Sir Henry had withdrawn his objections?” I asked Captain Barber.

“Yes. At some length. All his minions backed him up,”

“It would seem that Dr Augustus had nothing to do with Sir Henry’s death,” said Wolfe.

“All you’ve shown is that the document was signed before Sir Henry died,” snapped Captain Barber. “That proves nothing. It could still be Augustus.”

“Even though you know that Sir Henry himself announced in public that he had withdrawn his opposition?!” I protested. “You have no evidence against Dr Augustus at all.”

“It must have been Augustus! All this absurd talk of family curses is an obvious blind to have us chasing ghosts!”

“B*ll*cks,” said O’Malley.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“I said ye’s talkin’ b*ll*cks! I saw ‘im when ‘e come to our place the first time.” He made a vague gesture with the glowing end of his disgusting dog-end. “’e were terrified. I mean, proper terrified. Dunno if this ‘edgehog is real or no, but ‘e thought it were. ‘e ain’t makin’ up nuthin’.”

“But all these mad tales of giant hedgehogs! You mean the man’s a nutter?! Like that fellow last month who wanted me to charge the LGBTQQIAAP community with stealing the rainbow?!”

“Said that, first time I saw ‘im. No-one ever listens to me.”

“Ah, _es tut me lied_ ,” said Wolfe to Captain Barber with an innocent grin. “It seems that you have been chasing a… what is the word… pink salmon?”

“Red herring,” I said.

“Is it not fortunate for you that Thackerey and company are here? Why, in only a single day we have solved the problem that has perplexed you for a week. And our rates are so reasonable.”

“Not our fault ye been wastin’ yer time,” added O’Malley, with malicious satisfaction.

Captain Barber glared at us, clearly trying in vain to think of a reason to wipe the smug smiles from our three faces.

“That’s all very well,” I said, “but now all the threads of our enquiries into Sir Henry’s death and the Hedgehog of the Baskertons seem to have broken. Where do we go from here, I wonder?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks to Jess-a-men in the Widdershins comments for coining the phrase Lingua Aliquantum_


	12. All About Agnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Herr Wolfe’s sketches are most revealing, Mr O’Malley’s talent proves useful and Mr Thackerey finally gets a decent dinner, but not a good night’s sleep_

The four of us walked back to the waiting coach. Wolfe and O’Malley led their horses. I made sure there was plenty of distance between me and the horrid creatures. Once we were back on the main road Wolfe helped O’Malley get into the saddle.

“Perhaps we should examine the house and grounds, as Ben suggested” he said, before the silence became too uncomfortable. “Our investigations in the countryside have all led nowhere.”

“You think it is something to do with the house?” asked Captain Barber.

“It would seem so. All the incidents of the Hedgehog of the Baskertons have occurred there.”

“All the incidents? The only evidence we have that this Hedgehog exists are some footprints that Augustus may or may not have seen in a flowerbed, the rantings of a hysterical wizard and a damaged jacket. I’m still not convinced.”

“Uh… begin’ y’ pardon ma’am, but there’s others tha’s seen it.” We all turned and looked at Maisie sitting in the driver’s seat of the carriage. She looked nervous at addressing her betters without permission.

“Go on,” said Captain Barber, in a tone that did little to put her at ease. “What else has no-one bothered to tell me?” Maisie looked from one to the other of us for encouragement. Wolfe gave her an encouraging smile, which for some reason did not seem to help.

“Well, ma’am, there were Agnes in the house. They do say she see it. The ‘edge’og like. Only, Mr Conlon ‘e said no-one were to tell.”

“Agnes? Is she one of the staff?”

“Upstairs maid ma’am.”

“Right, that’s our first job when we get back.”

“Begin’ y’ pardon, but she ain’t at the ‘all no more.”

“She left because of the hedgehog?”

“Uh… dun like to say ma’am, but I ‘eard she were, y’ know, up the duff and ‘ad to leave.”

“Again? Does this happen regularly at Baskerton Hall?”

“Dunno. I’m only outdoor staff. No-one tell me nuffin’, ‘specially them indoors.”

“But you knew about Agnes?”

“Yes ma’am. She used to like to come and ‘elp wi’ the pigs. She liked pigs. She were brought up wi’ ‘em.”

“Hmph. When did this happen?”

“Oh, near on a year ago I’d say.”

“Thank you, er…”

“Maisie.” I whispered.

“…Maisie. You’ve been very helpful. Now, take us go back to the Hall.”

Wolfe mounted up and rode on ahead with O’Malley. Once he was out on the open road, he flicked the reins to give Mabel her head and galloped off towards the Hall. I noticed that Maisie looked after him with an unhappy scowl. What Wolfe had done to annoy her I could not imagine, especially as they had been getting along so well the day before. I expect she was hoping he would help her stable the horses again.

I settled down to enjoy, or perhaps endure, the carriage ride with Captain Barber. She could not let go of her theory that Dr Augustus was somehow responsible.

“I still want to talk to that man again. See what he has to say for himself. If he is involved, he may let something slip under interrogation.”

“Surely you don’t intend to arrest him?” I protested.

“It will be difficult to bring him in for questioning. Doctors have a lot of influence in a rural community, and the local force will not want to upset him, and I certainly don’t want him sending a complaint back to Widdershins.”

“Perhaps if we were to invite him to dine with us at Widdershins tonight? As he employed us, he will be expecting a report on our progress. Then we can have a civilised talk without making him feel he is under suspicion or being interrogated.”

“You feel he will more off-guard if we ply him with wine?”

“I was hoping that if the doctor is a guest to dinner, we might stand a chance of getting a decent meal.”

“That… that almost sounds like a plan.”

\----------------------*

By the time we arrived back at the stables, Wolfe had already left Mabel with a groom and gone into the house. O’Malley was struggling to tie up his horse and remove the saddle, much to the frustration of the groom. O’Malley wouldn’t let the man do his job. I think this was not only because he was at the time unused to having servants (if you don’t count Wolfe and I), but also his strange philosophy that objects to paying someone else for their labour.

Eventually I persuaded him to leave the man to deal with the horses and come with us into the house. We let Captain Barber arrange a dinner invitation to Dr Augustus, which involved an animated discussion with Mr Conlon. I hoped this would work off some of her excess of yellow bile. We found Wolfe in the library, looking at a large and beautifully illustrated book of plants.

“Welcome back!” he said. “My apologies for leaving you behind, but who can resist a gallop?”

“You could have broken your neck,” I remonstrated, although I knew I might as well have tried talking to Mabel.

“I have had a fine day with Mr Bredon and his friends,” continued Wolfe. “I took the opportunity to sketch their precious plant, the lesser quagweed.” He indicated his journal, lying open on the table. His drawings were extremely good, with details I would have struggled to discern, even wearing my best glasses. “We are fortunate that Sir Henry has such a fine library, including this beautiful _Florilegium_ , an illustrated book of the European flora.”

“Not surprising. A gentleman must possess a good library.”

“Although it seems to me that I am the first one to have opened this book, or to have even taken it down from the shelf.”

“That, also, is not surprising.”

“I am puzzled. When I compare my drawings to the pictures here in the _Florilegium_ , you can tell this most rare species should have these long sepals with the little hairs making a quite distinctive calyx, see? They are not present in my drawings.” I adjusted my glasses to look at the intricate drawings in the _Florilegium_. There were at least ten different species of tiny plant, all of them completely identical to my eye. O’Malley leaned over my shoulder and breathed the stink of stale tobacco into my face.

“Ye dunno what a calyx is either do ye?”

“Of course, I have never made a study of botany…”

“Yeah, thought not.” I examined Wolfe’s sketches and compared them to the illustrations in the book.

“There does seem to be a difference,” I admitted.

“That is odd. Perhaps my drawing is not all it could be,” he mused.

“B*ll*cks to that,” said O’Malley. “Mebbe it’s the posh book tha’s wrong.”

Wolfe is a fine artist, although he is far too modest to admit it. His sketches record the world around him, but he rarely shows his work to others. Now I had his journal, I could not resist looking to see what else he had drawn. I turned the page and my eyes widened in astonishment.

“GOOD HEAVENS!” I had not expected to see that.

“Ah,” said Wolfe. “You have found my sketches of Cynthia, I think?”

“Cynthia?!”

“Ms Parrot.”

“Wolfe, these drawings are not suitable for work!”

“But they record a happy moment, and this is good, yes?”

Blushing, I closed the book and handed it back to him. At least I was no longer in any doubt as to the details of Ms Parrot’s physiology.

“You mean you are seeing Ms Parrot? As in _seeing_ her?! But she’s… she’s…” I struggled to find the right words.

“Bl**dy ‘orrible.” O’Malley supplied them for me. Wolfe looked deeply hurt.

“Come, come, there is no need to be ungentlemanly. Her manner is not only an expression of her strong moral principles, but also a deep-seated insecurity and loneliness because she is ah…”

“Ugly as sin.”

“Ah… because her outward appearance does not conform to society’s current stereotypes of female beauty.” Wolfe had to think carefully about the correct words. “I think that some… ah…. male companionship and affection will help her self-confidence.”

“Sooner you th’n me mate.”

“As you are getting to know her so well, in all senses of the word,” I said, “do you think she had anything to do with Sir Henry’s death.”

“No, I am sure she did not.”

“Y’sure? Wouldn’t like to knock ‘er pint over.”

“Ah, perhaps she does have a temper. Had Sir Henry been found with his head beaten in by repeated powerful blows from a blunt instrument, then perhaps I would suspect her. But playing with ancient evil spirits to torment her enemies? No, that is not how she would behave at all.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And how are you getting on with the other activists?”

“Very well. I had a happy half an hour throwing sticks for Rex to fetch. There is a little friction with Mr Bredon. Perhaps he does not completely trust me.”

“Nah, ‘e’s jealous, tha’s all.”

“Oh! Why would he – ah – he likes Ms Parrot too? I had no idea.”

“Nah, ‘e’s jealous o’ Ms Parrot ‘cause yer givin’ ‘er a good seein’ to and not ‘im.”

“ _A_ _ch je_.”

“Seriously?” I said.

“Yeah, ‘e gets tha’ a lot.” Wolfe looked somewhat embarrassed. Also, somewhat smug.

“So long as we don’t end up finding you with your head beaten in by repeated powerful blows from a blunt instrument.”

“I do not think that Mr Bredon will resort to violence.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Mr Bredon.”

\----------------*

Constable Turner had returned from Ruardean, having safely seen Dr Holbrook onto the Gloucester Mail. I am sure everyone was as pleased as I to hear Turner’s report that the police wizard was rapidly recovering from his ordeal, although from what we could gather, he was already complaining how everything that had gone wrong was somehow all our fault.  

The presence of Dr Augustus at dinner that night ensured that we had a decent meal. We might be the lowest form of life in Mr Conlon’s eyes, but he would never dream of showing anything but the greatest respect and attention to such an important and influential person as the local doctor. The butler even honoured us with his presence to oversee the serving of the meal. During the main courses, I was able to inform Dr Augustus of our progress so far, concentrating on the appearance of the Hedgehog the night before and the sudden departure of Dr Holbrook. We did not need O’Malley to tell us that the doctor found my story deeply disturbing. When it came to the investigation at Ms Allingham’s I felt it in everyone’s interest if I omitted any mention that he might be under suspicion and talked only of resolving certain issues relating to legal documents.

Once the cloth had been drawn, a half-decent decanter of port circulated. Mr Conlon was scandalised by the breach of etiquette when the ladies – in this case Captain Barber – failed to leave the gentlemen, especially when she refused the port anyway. I limited myself to a small glass, although I did take full advantage of the cheese, having first assured myself that it was in fact Stilton and not a mouldy piece of cheddar from the back of the pantry. Wolfe and O’Malley of course, both helped themselves. I noticed Dr Augustus also refilled his glass every time the decanter came to him, clearly still shaken by my tale of the second appearance of the Hedgehog.

Captain Barber took up the conversation, getting the doctor to tell his story again, sometimes asking him to repeat himself, but showing welcome restraint by not subjecting him to the full interrogation I am sure she would have preferred. We had briefed O’Malley to watch Dr Augustus’ state of mind as the questions were asked. From O’Malley’s surreptitious signals, and  what I could see myself, Augustus was telling the truth and was truly frightened by what he told us – and what we had told him. I did not need O’Malley’s ‘talent’ to know that the confirmation of his innocence did not improve Captain Barber’s mode. She was still hoping the entire thing was a conspiracy between the doctor, O’Malley and possibly myself, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

“Pardon me,” said Wolfe, “but Maisie mentioned Agnes, another maid who left under… ah… unfortunate circumstances.”

“Why yes, almost a year ago I believe. I remember she came to see me because she was in the family way.”

“Who was the father?”

“She would not say, despite my best encouragement. She had been roughly treated, a black eye – some bruising – no bones broken fortunately - I presume by the father.”

“And you reported it to the police?” snapped Captain Barber.

“No, I tried to persuade her, but she refused. She went home to her family.”

“You let this b*st*rd get away with it?”

“I was not pleased by the turn of events, but if the girl won’t name her accuser, let alone give evidence against him, what can the police do?”

“Hmph! In Widdershins we don’t let violence against women go unpunished! Is she still living in the village?”

“No, she wasn’t a local girl. She came from over in Yorkley Slade if I remember correctly.”

“Pardon me,” said Wolfe, “but is it usual for so many maids at Baskerton Hall to be… er…?”

“Up th’ spout,” added O’Malley.

Captain Barber turned on Mr Conlon.

“Well, is it usual?”

“I really couldn’t say ma’am.”

“That’s not the same as ‘I don’t know’ is it? Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be responsible for these girls?”

“It’s not my place to…”

“This is a police investigation of a serious crime Conlon! If you know anything that’s useful to me, you tell me right now. This no time for mis-placed loyalty or protecting reputations!”

The butler glared at us, his fists clenching and unclenching. He thought for several seconds before he decided to answer.

“Well ma’am, in all honesty, Sir Henry did have a bit of an eye for a pretty face. I always disapproved of course, and told the maids to remember their place, but, well, you know how it is.”

Captain Barber thumped the table, making me and all the glasses jump. O’Malley displayed faster reflexes than I knew he possessed by deftly catching the decanter before it could tip over.

“Damned well I know how it is! A rich old man forcing himself on young women who are supposed to be under his protection!”

“I’m not saying he forced himself on them, ma’am,” continued the butler. “Sir Henry could be very persuasive and charming when he wanted to be. And I’m sure there’s young women always ready to enjoy better food and wine, especially the wine that is so much better than we get below stairs.”

“Men like that would be hanged if I had my way! I’d like to… to…hmph!” She looked decidedly disappointed when she remembered that Sir Henry had already been dead for over three weeks.

“And what about Agnes?” asked Wolfe. “Are you saying that Sir Henry mistreated her?”

“She did not know her place. Rather than being ashamed of her low moral standards, she was determined to make a scene.”

“And Sir Henry used physical violence against her?”

For the first time, Conlon’s adamantine butlerian façade began to show cracks.

“I… I… don’t like to say ma’am, but it was not Sir Henry. It was dark. There had been a scene and she had left the house. They found her injured in the garden. She had been attacked but would not say what had happened to her. She seemed scared. Very scared. She left the house the next day and we have not heard from her since.”

“You think she was attacked by the Hedgehog.”

“As I said, it does not do to spread idle rumours and superstitious legends. I saw no sign of her assailant, human or demonic.” He gave us all a defiant stare, resentful that he already told us more than he wished. “If that’s all ma’am, Sirs?”

“Thank you Mr Conlon, you have been most useful,” said Wolfe politely. Captain Barber was still so angry she didn’t even acknowledge him leaving the room.

I turned to O’Malley.

“Interesting. Was Conlon telling the truth?”

O’Malley drew on his disgusting roll-up as though he were thinking.

“Dunno.”

“But…”

“Dun read minds. Just see what he’s feelin’. Right now, ‘e’s angry. Angry at us. Might be ‘cause ye’s pryin’ into family secrets. Mebbe ‘cause ‘e dun’ like ye. Can’t think why. But ‘e’s worried too. Scared even.”

“You mean even he believes in the Hedgehog?

“Mebbe.”

“I remember he did not help us search for the Hedgehog when Dr Holbrook was attacked,” mused Wolfe, “although at the time I thought that was because he did not like him.”

“But could Sir Henry have been taking advantage of his maids and then turning them out on the street?” I asked.

“Won’t be the first man to do that,” said Captain Barber with a scowl.

“I cannot believe that Sir Henry would act in such a fashion!” exclaimed Dr Augustus.

“What sort of man was he?”

“A true gentleman. Fought with distinction in the Peninsular War. Married, but his wife died, ten, no eleven years ago. Their only son died when he was born. It was a difficult labour, and after that, Lady Baskerton was not able to have more children.”

“You do not think that he was too old to be chasing after maids and getting them pregnant?” I asked.

“Fifty-nine is not so old,” said Wolfe. “I would hope that I will still have some life left in me should I reach that age.”

“If the Duke was behaving badly towards the maids, would that have been enough to invoke this fearsome spectre of retribution?”

“Hm, perhaps,” replied Dr Augustus. “The Squires in the Forest have always regarded their female servants as fair game. What might have offended the spirit is the way you say he treated them afterwards. I mean, it was quite normal for the squire to have children by his servants out of wedlock. But they would be useful members of the family; trusted retainers of a higher status than the hoi-polloi, but not of noble blood. Ideal foremen, factors, overseers, and managers who would have the authority to run the estate and keep people in line. And very often the yeomen would encourage their daughters to er… befriend the squire – it was an excellent way to advance the family fortunes. The idea of getting some poor girl in your power pregnant and then sending her back to her family in disgrace as ‘damaged goods’; no that wasn’t the way things worked at all. That’s very much a modern idea from your big cities.”

“Not in Widdershins it isn’t!” snapped Captain Barber. “It’s a disgraceful way to behave.”

“I know. And I’ve known Sir Henry for twenty years and I cannot believe that he would act in such a fashion. It is completely out of character.”

“And yet, perhaps you have known him for twenty years, but in fact you have not known him at all,” suggested Wolfe. 

The decanter was empty, the cheese was finished, and the meal was over. We saw Dr Augustus to his carriage. He could not, in truth, be described as entirely sober, and we watched him drive his dog cart down the road with some trepidation.

“I wonder if it is time we made it illegal to drive while under the influence of alcohol,” mused Captain Barber as we watched his unsteady progress.

We made our way back into the house. Now that Dr Augustus had left the building, I felt my hopes of a cup of cocoa before bedtime had seriously diminished. O’Malley suddenly turned on one of the servants clearing away the remains of the meal.

“Oi, you!”

“Sir?” the man said, wondering what he had done wrong.

“I see ye when we was talkin’ ‘bout that Agnes. “Ye know summin’ don’t ye?”

“Sir, I shouldn’t. Mr Conlon won’t like it if…”

“Fear not,” said Wolfe. “You can trust us. What is your name?”

“Thomas, sir.” Captain Barber took charge,

“Right Thomas, you come with me.” She marched us all back into the dining room and closed the door.

“Sit!” she commanded. We all sat. “Turner, stand by the door and make sure we aren’t disturbed. Now what have you got to tell us?”

“But ma’am, Mr Conlon…”

“Mr Conlon can go and… hmph… Mr Conlon won’t hear a word from us.” She gave us all a meaningful look. We all nodded. Thomas looked at the closed door behind him with its police guard and realised he didn’t have a choice.

“Well ma’am, after there were the scene wi’ Agnes and she stormed out, through the front door an’ all, I went out to look for her, make sure she were all right like.”

“Mr Conlon sent you?” The footman looked down at his feet and blushed.

“Ah, you liked Agnes did you not?” grinned Wolfe.

“Yes sir. But it weren’t me that…y’know. Wish it were. Anyways, I sorta sneaked out when he weren’t lookin’. And then I ‘eard Agnes screamin’ and ran over to ‘er. She were in the garden, lyin’ on the ground. Bleedin’ an ‘er clothes all torn.”

“Did you see who attacked her?” The footman looked unhappy.

“Couldn’t a’ been Sir Henry. “’e were in the ‘ouse.”

“Who then?”

“Well ma’am, I saw this big shadow, agen’ the night sky. It were a giant, bigger ‘an a man. An’ it were spiky.” The man went pale.

“Can you give us mire details?”

“No ma’am. I picked up Agnes and ran like b*ggery back to the ‘ouse, pardon my French. Didn’t look back. Please dun tell Mr Conlon I said anything ma’am. He dun like us to spread stories. Thinks it looks bad f’ the ‘all’s reputation.”

“Whereas throwing pregnant maids out on the street doesn’t? Hrmph!”

“This scene with Agnes,” asked Wolfe. “Did you hear what was said?”

“No sir. It were Agnes and the Master and Mr Conlon in th’ study. There was all shoutin’, but I couldn’t ‘ear what they were sayin’.”

“Thank you for this information,” said Wolfe. “We will tell no-one what you said.”

The man stood up and left to continue his duties, before Mr Conlon noticed his absence. Once he had gone, I looked at O’Malley.

“What do you think.”

“Yeah, wha’ ‘e said. Scared by summin’. Angry about tha’ Agnes. Reckon ‘e fancied ‘er summin’ rotten.”

“I didn’t need you to tell me that!” snapped Captain Barber.  

“Yer welcome.”

“Does this help us?” I asked. “Even if this Hedgehog is a malevolent summons invoked by Sir Henry’s shocking behaviour, surely now he is dead, the spirit will be laid to rest? Does this mean the police investigation is at an end?”

“Except we need to bring Agnes’ assailant to justice,” added Captain Barber. “And you’re forgetting another important point,” “What about Rachel?”

“Rachel? But that’s all sorted out.” Captain Barber rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Men! No, it’s not ‘all sorted out’. Someone got her pregnant then abandoned her and it was only the merest luck that she didn’t end up drowned in the lake. Was that Sir Henry up to his old tricks?”

“I suppose that would be the logical conclusion, but even so…”

“And yet, in that case, why did the Hedgehog attack Agnes last year, but Sir Henry rather than Rachel three weeks ago?”

\------------------*

As I suspected, the hospitality of Baskerton Hall departed with Dr Augustus, and no nightcap appeared. After my adventures of the previous night, I was tired and ready for bed, but also anxious about what might befall me. Wolfe, as always, realised I was troubled.

“Ah Ben, what is wrong? Perhaps you are worried about the fair Nicola? Or perhaps your ghost?”

“No, despite what you may think, Captain Barber only came into my room last night to look for evidence of our wrong-doing. And I think my ‘ghost’ from the night before was her trying to sneak in while I was asleep. No, what troubles me now is something else. Do you think there may be some evil presence stalking Baskerton Hall?” I told him of the visitation that had paralysed me in my bed.

“Ah friend Ben, that is nothing to worry about, nothing at all!” Wolfe said it in his very reassuring manner, although I expect he would say the same thing, in the same tone of voice, if we met the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse riding down the street towards us. “You see, what you experienced is similar to sleepwalking.”

“I was not sleepwalking!”

“Aha, no, perhaps I mean it is the opposite of sleepwalking. As I have been told, when you dream there is a little piece of your brain that must remain asleep – that is the part that controls your movement. Then, when you dream your dream does not make you move around and do dangerous and embarrassing things, yes? Now when this little piece is awake when you dream, why then you sleepwalk?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Now sometimes it works the other way. When you wake up and are conscious, that little piece of brain stays asleep, so you are conscious but completely unable to move. I have heard the sensation, which sounds most unpleasant, described as a night hag – too dramatic a term, I think. The correct scientific name is –ah, what is the word – sleep paralysis; much better I think.”

“But what of the face! I could sense it inches from mine!”

“Ah, the mind plays tricks in such situations. You could not hear or see or touch this ‘presence’, no? I think perhaps it is an illusion, like any other dream. Should this happen to you again, why then go back to sleep and then allow all of your brain to awaken correctly.”

“But I’ve never experienced anything like that before.”

“Then in the future it would be wise for you not to indulge in a toasted cheese supper before bedtime.”

“I… thank you.”

“A pleasure. Now, I wish you Good Night and Pleasant Dreams!”

A worthy sentiment, but despite his good will, and my fatigue, sleep was a long time in coming. The night before I had laid awake thinking of Captain Barber in her night dress. Now I laid awake and thought of Parat Allingham, with her calm and calculating manner, her controlled poise, the curve of her perfectly tailored dress and the smile of thanks she gave me.

Life can be so unfair. Consider Jack O’Malley. He has all the magical talent that I’ve always craved but has no respect for it and no use for it. I have been given just enough talent to make me a wizard but not enough to make me any good at it. And most unfair of all, O’Malley has been blessed by a complete absence of libido. He is completely free from any kind of carnal desire. What a blessing that must be.

**Author's Note:**

> _Ben Thackerey, Heinrich Wolfe, Jack O'Malley, Nicola Barber and the world of Widdershins are the creations of Kate Ashwin. This work is (ahem) inspired by the works of M.R. James, Margery Allingham, William Hope Hodgson and, of course, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._


End file.
